Authors: Seth Coker
“When you want to come into the marina, you get your boat into position to where those two poles look like one long pole and head straight in.” He unrolled his napkin and demonstrated with the knife and fork. “Whenever the two poles are in line with each other, you should be in the deepest part of the channel.”
“But there is no way
we
did that, coming around the bend so tightly.”
“The Whaler doesn’t draw enough to worry about it here.”
“Does ‘draw’ mean how deep it is?”
“Basically. Joe’s boat draws enough to need to use the range.”
Mentioning Joe made her smile. Even Cale got a kick out of him—sort of. That lovable old lug who came calling with a firm handshake and a pistol in his pocket, just checking to see whether his nephew was hit in the back of the head with a tire iron. He was probably all right when he wasn’t out of sorts. Tony was definitely all right. Despite Cale’s concerns that they were involved in organized crime, he figured the odds were they were the hardscrabble city boys who made good like they said. But he reserved the right to change his opinion and brain Joe if his hand found its way into his rain slicker again.
When the food arrived, Ashley was impressed. Cale was impressed that she drank the island water without complaining. The volume of sugar in his sweet tea overcame the beach-water gravy for him. His paper cup was refilled several times without his asking.
They lingered. The air felt good. Conversation came easy. It
stayed in the present tense—not
Some weather we are having
, but not personal history lessons or religious debates either. It floated. Cale found himself enjoying this afternoon even more than the last two evenings with her. He only had to stop once from saying,
My daughters think the same thing
. Weddings always used that verse about love being blind; you never knew what could happen. He’d accept dim lighting; at this point, blind seemed too much to ask.
His phone rudely began vibrating against his leg, and Cale pulled it out, looked at the screen. It was a 703 area code. He said, “Excuse me for a minute, Ashley,” and walked to the railing before she could grant or refuse permission.
“This is Cale.” His practiced phone greeting was a bit singsong for such a big man. It was optimistic, suggesting he was looking forward to learning who was on the other end of the line and that he was ready to help. Cale could look gruff enough in person, and it was often a client calling.
“Hey, Cale, it’s Sheila. Sorry about … the way the call went earlier this morning. I had higher hopes for that group. I should know better by now.”
“Yeah, OK. Should I ask why you keep calling me on a disposable phone?”
“Don’t be an ass, Cale. You know why. I’m trying to get you help.”
“Mental help or guys with guns help?” He thought she was on his side, but best to clarify.
Sheila, demonstrating part of the skill set that helped her achieve her rank, didn’t dignify the jab. “Radcliffe was dead before the fire.”
Not earth-shattering news. The three guys who came to party at Cale’s house confirmed it without Radcliffe’s autopsy, but it was a step in the right direction and should speed up getting the various anonymous players bought in.
“So now everybody will take appropriate precautions,” Cale said leadingly. “Locate the Escobars here in the States. Make sure they
know they are under surveillance. Tell them they are suspects. That kind of standard operating procedure stuff, right?”
“I’m working on it. But you should know: When we spoke this morning, everybody in the room except me already knew this information.”
That was a mule kick to the gut. Cale’s response was an audible “Ugh.” Sheila stayed quiet while he searched for an unemotional response.
“Sheila … come clean. Is there any set of circumstances where they will allow this to be pinned back to the Escobars, or are these treaties too big and too recent a triumph to have these details muddy it up?”
“I don’t know. I’m working on it. The president really put his weight behind getting the deal with the rebels signed, and the other side has wanted the free-trade agreement signed for over ten years. I’m not sure where the sponsors are for bringing up any issues, but I’m looking. This was the grand bargain for both parties to get this done. They are trumpeting it as a blueprint for how they will tackle the bigger domestic issues next.”
This was a detailed way of saying, “You are on your own.” But there was no reason to shoot the messenger (although she might be off the Christmas card list). Once the message was delivered and received, the perfunctory motions getting to good-bye happened quickly.
The dice now bounced down the craps table. After twenty years of dormancy, the Escobars needed to complete their Old Testament eye for an eye version of justice. Cale needed to find them to get on with his life. He couldn’t let them leave; he’d have to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life. And his daughters would have to look over theirs for the rest of their lives. But he was not a SEAL or even a bounty hunter. He wished the Escobars understood MLK Jr.’s words, about only light being able to chase dark and only love being able to chase hate and end this cycle of violence. But he knew that was not
their code. The facts were simply that hate was chasing him, and his loving sidearm must be ready for that hate.
But right now, the Escobars weren’t on the island, so nobody was murdering anybody this afternoon. Cale’s mind strategized most creatively when he was engaged in things he liked doing. It was a beautiful gift to compartmentalize future stress away and enjoy the present. So he’d enjoy his date, assuming it continued to be awesome, and hope some ideas floated up from the recesses of his brain. There was also a small part of him that was looking forward to the challenge the Escobars would present and the opportunity to complete some unfinished business.
He looked toward Ashley, who politely looked out to sea rather than watching him. He wondered whether she thought he was talking to a girlfriend he conveniently hadn’t mentioned. The absurdity of trying to explain this development to her cheered him up. Gallows humor. He didn’t think he’d explain it. He wasn’t putting her in any danger here—at least, no Colombian danger, and he’d already fully disclosed the bull sharks. He knew his mind would keep processing how to handle his predicament, but he would hold off officially worrying about it until after he dropped her off. No matter how well the day progressed, he would drop her off this afternoon; it wouldn’t be kosher to invite her back to his place when he expected company.
“Sorry I took that call. It was from my old boss when I worked for the DEA. A coworker died a few days ago, and she was giving me an update on the details.”
She offered condolences but didn’t request specifics. Whether her actions stemmed from good breeding, disinterest, or trust was hard for Cale to tell. A hint of jealousy might have been nice.
They finished lunch, and Cale stuffed cash in an amount equal to the meager price of lunch in the tip jar on the way out. Back at the marina, they rented a modified golf cart from the harbormaster. Ashley refilled Jimmy’s water bowl and set it in the boat. His
sleeping spot followed the shade. If he got too hot, he was smart enough to hop in the water and then climb back onboard. Cale pulled the two surfboards out and set them crossways in the back of the cart—probably OK at fifteen miles per hour.
A hundred yards down the path from the marina, the scenery became scrubby, wind-beaten trees five feet on either side of the path. They passed houses built on stilts. Mosquito central, Cale thought, but to each their own. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that mosquito leeching was a little-known method for reducing blood volume and pressure passed down from unlicensed barbers throughout the centuries.
The gas-powered cart downshifted to first gear to climb the island’s mountain. They reached the plateau, roughly seventy-five feet above sea level. The dune, cleared of trees, was domesticated with zoysia and provided a bit of a view. Cale pointed out the areas of interest: the marina; the ferry dock; the island grocery store; the mainland; the golf course, where a gator, with doves perched on its back, impersonated a statue in the fairway.
The large beach Cale targeted for them was down to the right. The waves looked OK. The water didn’t look turbid enough to hide a bull shark, but he couldn’t tell for sure. A bull shark is just not a pretty animal and doesn’t even look hydrodynamic: big belly, small eyes, mottled coloring. Would Ashley buy it if he just said the waves were no good? But things looked OK from here.
They descended the mountain. The cart’s governor kicked in, and Cale got no juice from pushing the pedal to the mat, but he kept it pinned anyways. At sea level, he pulled the cart onto the road’s shoulder. They were the only people at the beach.
With the longboard under his arm, Cale walked to the beach. He used the bagged essentials in his other hand as a counterbalance. Ashley carried the smaller board on her head. Cale was giddy to get in the water. His speech and walking pace accelerated. Just short of the
water, they set everything down. He traded out his shirt for a rash guard. She pulled off her dress, and Cale became even giddier. He handed her a rash guard to put over her bikini. A strange surge of gravity made his eyes watch her raised-arm wiggle that got the rash guard over her head much too quickly. Even with the guard on, Ashley’s gravitational force was still very strong. Fortunately, the extra polyester weakened it enough that he could mind his manners.
A circular bar of green wax was fished out of the bag. It smelled slightly of coconut. He waxed the shortboard and started on the longboard. It was pretty bare; there was plenty of sand in old bumps. He expected Ashley to use the longboard. It had a safer feel. It was easier to catch waves on it, too. The only time the longboard was a bummer was when the water was choppy, when fighting its size could be exhausting.
Cale’s world narrowed to one job: waxing. Small circles into big circles. Nose to tail. Rail to rail. He was fully in the present, just like when he was flying. This was a characteristic of a good pilot—immersed in the present, fixated on the little jobs that needed to be done. He hummed tunelessly. When he finished, he looked up.
Ashley was already in the white water. He hadn’t noticed her departure. She held the board leeward of her body to keep the wind from slapping it into her face. She walked to waist deep, waited out a breaking wave, took two quick steps, dove forward with the board, and paddled furiously. She made the crest of the next wave at its peak, the last unbroken spot in the wave. Pretty cool. Cale wouldn’t mention that since he got to use the longboard, he wasn’t as nervous about the bull sharks.
He dropped the wax in the sand, ran the longboard into the water, and used the bigger board’s superior paddling speed to catch Ashley as she turned perpendicular to shore to await her set. She flicked her hair back as she sat up, straddling the board. She wiped the water out of her face with both hands. Cale paddled slightly past her. As he sat up, straddling the board, he slowly slid down toward the board’s tail.
The lower center of weight helped him quickly spin around and, by kicking his feet in opposite directions, he sped up the turn, spinning in a circle.
The first wave passed. They both caught the second. He went left; she went right. It was a nice first ride for both of them. Cale made it back to the surf zone first. She paddled back calmly, with a steady rhythm, not at the furious pace she broke through the breakers with. She must have been giddy to get out there too.
Cale said, “Well, you could have told me.”
She showed a mouthful of the type of straight white teeth you find only in America. God bless the US orthodontics industry.
Cale continued, “I had worked up this whole ‘feel the spirit of the ocean’ guru routine.”
She replied, “I told you, I’m from San Diego. I thought you knew that was on the ocean. Pretty big surf town.”
Unfazed by the flirty taunt, he replied, “I know where San Diego is. It’s the first place I killed a man.”
Ashley gasped audibly. “You are such an animal. I feel so safe yet so vulnerable with you here alone in the ocean.”
Of course that exchange never happened, but Cale liked the thought of it. But when calculating the odds in his head, the estimated chances for a net positive response from mentioning that he’d killed someone were precisely none too good. His response instead was a smile coupled with a wizened look down the shoreline (this would have been part of the ocean guru routine anyway). He assessed the break of the waves and made certain they were in an optimal location. That was the biggest key to enjoyable surfing: being in the right location. Too far out, you didn’t catch many waves; too far in, you had waves breaking on your head.
As a surfer, she proved distinctly not bad. Good etiquette. Good wave count, particularly considering she was using the shortboard. Nothing radical. They stayed on the water longer than he’d meant to.
Cale came in tired, but Ashley seemed energized. There were no side-to-side-moving fin sightings. Several fins swam by bobbing up and down, which seemed a positive harbinger.
They dried off, and Ashley undid her bikini and got into her dress from behind a beach towel—a both incredibly sexy and incredibly cruel San Diego Beach Betty trick.
The wind picked up. This time, she drove the golf cart while Cale kept an arm across the boards. Back aboard the Whaler, Ashley cast off the bowline and pushed the boat’s bow away from the dock. Cale let the stern line tighten, the bow swung around, he unhooked the stern line, then engaged the engines to forward, and they headed to the channel.
Outside the barrier island, the Whaler bounced across intermittent whitecaps. At the next channel, Cale ducked the Whaler inside to the waterway. They again found themselves crossing over the debris coming out of the Cape Fear River. The sun was warm now, and it felt like August again. When the journey was over, Cale tied back onto the butt end of the pier where
Framed
was docked and killed the engines.