Authors: Ellen Prager
“We're so glad you could make it. I'm Mary. My husband and I own the Bitter End. I've arranged for Alvin to give you a tour before dinner. That will give Meg and me a chance to catch up.”
A heavyset man pulled up beside the dock in an extra-long golf cart. “Y'alls a-ready fors a ride?”
“We'll meet you at the restaurant after the tour,” Meg told them.
“Hops on in,” Alvin said, smiling.
Coach gave them another of his classic don't-do-anything-stupid looks before following the two women into the office building.
“I'll shows you the northern sides first. Me, this is wheres I'd stay in if I's was a guest.”
The campers piled into the cart. Alvin drove down a narrow, packed-sand road that curved around the office building and behind a similarly decorated restaurant. They came to a beach with people lying on lounge chairs under palm trees. Buoys off the beach marked a large, rectangular swimming area. In the middle floated a giant, round, blow-up trampoline. A couple of kids were bouncing on it, laughing, and trying to push each other off into the water. Tristan eyed the trampoline, thinking it looked like fun.
They continued down the winding shoreline road. It was lined with palm trees and tall bushes bursting with pink and white flowers.
“Uh, Mr. Alvin, what's that place out there?” Sam asked, pointing to a tiny island between where they were on Virgin Gorda and Prickly Pear Island.
“Oh, that's Saba Rock. Justs a bar and hotel out theres. Famous fors the tarpon feeding. Every nights for happy hour, theys feed the tarpons. Puts on a real show.”
The road curved to the right. Tristan gazed out over the lagoon stretching out behind Saba Rock. “How far away is that island?” He pointed to the far side of the lagoon.
“Eustatia? She's abouts a mile off, give or take. Now, sees the cottages ups the hill. Get greats wind, no needs for ACs or anything.”
The guest cottages sat in three long rows like wooden blocks stacked up the steep hillside. A network of wooden stairs and boardwalks provided access to the rooms. Tristan decided the view must be great, but he wasn't so sure about climbing up all those stairs every day.
They drove north along the shore beside the lowermost row of cottages. Alvin turned onto a steep, paved road that went up behind the last set of rooms.
“Here's where we drops 'em off if they don't want to take the stairs.”
Tristan looked out over the water to Eustatia Island. The view of the lagoon was breathtaking. Enhanced by the sun now low on the horizon, the contrasting colors seemed almost too vivid to be real. It looked like an abstract oil painting with wide swaths of royal blue, streaks of bright turquoise, and patches of deep green.
“What's the long tan area?” Tristan asked, looking at a wide stripe about three-quarters of the way across the lagoon.
“And what are all the really dark spots?” Hugh questioned.
“That tan's a coral reefs, kid,” Alvin answered. “Can't get across that one, too shallow. Thems there dark spots, they is piles of them black spiny urchins. Watch out for thems, they'll stick ya bads. Okay, nows hang on while I turn around and go down. We'll go a littles faster ways back.”
Alvin swung the cart around swiftly. The teens slid across the seats, reaching for something to hold on to. If Tristan hadn't grabbed hold of Sam, she would have gone flying out. They raced down the steep incline, careened around the road's wide turn, passed the beachfront, and arrived back at the buildings. Rosina and Hugh looked ready to jump for it as Alvin slowed, but he just kept driving.
“Now, we'll go to the souths side of thes property.”
Alvin kept up a running narrative as he drove slowly along the now cobblestone, slightly wider shoreline road. “Overs here, that's the watersport shack. Ya can rents just about anything that floats there.”
Tristan checked it out. The adjacent beach was packed with small Hobie Cat catamarans, windsurfers, paddleboards, and kayaks.
“Over heres,” Alvin said, pointing to the other side of the road. “That's the Sailing Club. There's the shops for clothes and stuffs. Next one's the stores for foods and that's a bar. Got good pizza theres.”
A few minutes later they stopped beside a wide tree with big, flat, green leaves that resembled lily pads, and long, narrow clusters of green, grape-like balls. Tristan recognized the Sea Grape tree from Florida. He used to chuck the green grape things at his sister.
Alvin pointed to several more rows of cottages stacked on the hillside toward the other side of the property. “Here's the rest of them rooms. There's a pool and another beach downs that ways. Across here, that's the dive shop and these two docks are for them big boats.”
Two long finger piers extended out into Gorda Sound. Several people with suitcases were boarding a green-hulled workboat tied up to one. Stacks of boxes sat nearby, waiting to be loaded, including the cooler containing the dead fish. Tristan figured it was the ferry Meg had mentioned. He then noticed the boat at the end of the other long dock. The sparkling white yacht was long and sleek with dark-tinted windows. People in fancy clothes were milling around on an upper deck at the stern.
“Hey, like, who owns that boat?” Ryder asked.
“That's Mr. Marsh's,” Alvin told them.
“Who's Mr. Marsh?” Hugh asked.
“Hugo Marsh. Owns Scars Island, very private. C'mon, dinners time.”
Alvin swung the cart around, nearly dumping Sam out again. The teens hung on as he sped back toward the restaurant. When they got out, Hugh and Rosina looked a little wobbly.
Dinner was served on an outside patio. Mary joined them and explained how lucky they were to be there for the weekly seafood buffet, a real treat for the guests. There was fish chowder, seafood salad, and numerous serving dishes all filled to the brim with cuisine from the sea. Two chefs manned a barbeque, grilling fillets of mahi mahi, salmon, and giant shrimp. Coach Fred, Ryder, and Rosina dug heartily into the from-the-ocean fare. Sam, Hugh, and Tristan stuck to the strictly non-seafood options like hamburgers, fried plantains, and beans and rice.
“You don't care for seafood?” Mary asked. “It's all sustainably caught or farmed in an environmentally friendly way, if that's the problem. We're even serving lionfishânice and flaky, once you cut off the poisonous spines. They're invasive, you know. Don't belong here, but we've been seeing more and more of them. Lionfish gobble up the small fish and crustaceans on the reefs. And they have no natural predators here. My dive guides kill 'em every time they see one. Plus they're pretty tasty.”
“Seafood allergy,” Hugh said quickly.
“Yeah, me too,” Tristan added.
Sam stuffed a big forkful of rice and beans into her mouth and just nodded.
“Oh, well that is a shame. Let me know if you're still hungry. I can always have our chefs prepare something else for you.”
The teens chewed and shook their heads to indicate they had plenty to eat.
Mary wanted to hear all about how they liked the islands and what they'd been doing. Coach watched the teens like a hawk, attentive to their every word. It led to an especially awkward conversation. Mary also asked if they'd learned anything new about the mysterious fish kills and disappearance of sponges. Meg was just explaining that there was little to tell when a new party of diners arrived at the restaurant. The Bitter End's owner waved, excused herself, and went to say hello.
Heads turned as the group made its way to a reserved waterside table. Two of the men wore well-pressed navy suit jackets, khaki slacks, and polo shirts. The women accompanying them had on short, body-hugging dresses and shoes with skinny stiletto heels at least four inches high. Tristan stared at the shoes. He couldn't imagine how anybody could walk in them, especially in the sand or on the dock. His attention was then drawn to a tall man at the back of the group. He was lean, strangely tan bordering on orange, and wore flowing, white drawstring pants with a matching gauze shirt. He strode toward Mary with a confident, charismatic flair, running a hand through his silky, shoulder-length, streaked hair.
“Is that guy wearing pajamas?” Tristan whispered to Hugh.
“I think that's Hugo Marsh, the big-time investment guy I mentioned before,” Meg told them in a hushed voice. “He owns Scar Island.” She paused. “Do you know the story behind the island's name?”
Mouths full, the teens just shook their heads.
“Supposedly, there was a brutal pirate captain who was served a stew he didn't care for. Upon tasting one spoonful of the stuff, the captain whipped out a dagger and sliced the man's cheek to show his displeasure. And that man was just the waiter. The chef was promptly tossed off the ship. Anyway, the captain named the island âScar' because its shape resembled that of the wound he gave the waiter. It was supposed to remind his crew and others not to cross him or provide bad food service.” Meg chuckled before adding, “Hope you all left room for dessert.”
The teens' attention quickly turned to a table stacked high with an incredible assortment of sweets, including cupcakes mounded with frosting, small custard-filled tarts, and giant peanut butter cookies. Tristan already felt like he was about to explode. Still, he had to make at least one trip to the dessert table. Hugh and Ryder somehow made repeat visits.
After dinner, the group waddled back to the dock in a collective food coma. With all the added weight, Tristan was sure their small boat would sink.
The inflatable was now being rocked by choppy waves, and the wind came in gusts.
Meg glanced skyward. “Looks like a squall coming through. We could wait for it to pass or head back and try to outrun it?”
“A
LITTLE RAIN
'
S NOT GOING TO HURT ANYONE
,” Coach announced. “Let's head back. Besides, don't want to keep the kids out too late and all.”
After some serious head shaking, the campers struggled, bellies full, into the inflatable. Meg started the engine while Coach stood at the bow to release them from the dock. Cables on the nearby sailboats rattled in the strengthening wind, and it started to drizzle.
“Hang on,” Meg told them. “After we get past the boats, I'm going to give her some gas to try to beat the squall. And you all might want to scoot back. It's going to be a little wet up front.”
The campers shimmied back on the boat's rubber sides, squeezing together. Meg turned the inflatable away from the well-lit yacht club and navigated slowly
around the rocking boats and empty mooring balls. She then swiveled the throttle to increase their speed. The boat rose higher out of the water, and soon they were speeding through the night toward Mosquito Island. Just a sprinkling of lights dotted the barren islands around them. The inflatable bounced roughly over the wind-driven chop, and spray blew in over the front. The rain fell harder. The campers scrunched farther back, trying to stay warm and dry.
They were in the middle of Gorda Sound, about halfway back, when trouble struck. A stuttering cough interrupted the steady whine of the engine. Meg gave it more gas and the outboard engine returned to an even drone. Minutes later, there was another sputter and then . . . silence. The inflatable jerked and slowed, just as the skies let loose a punishing deluge. Shielding his eyes from the pelting rain, Tristan looked back. The lights of the Bitter End had disappeared. They were enveloped in a dark cocoon of falling water, and the only sounds were the whistling wind and the drumming of rain against the boat's rubber hull.
Meg tried to restart the engine. Coach scrambled back to help. But the motor remained eerily quiet. They were now adrift in the dark in Gorda Soundâmore specifically, in the boat channel.
From her backpack, Meg pulled out a small dive light and radio. “
Reef Runner
,
Reef Runner
, come in?”
No answer. Even if there had been a response, it would have been hard to hear in the wind and rain. She tried again as Coach continued to work on the engine.
The campers were dripping wet, and rainwater began collecting at their feet.
“We could, like, swim back,” Ryder shouted.
“'Fraid not,” Meg yelled back. “Not safe out here in the boat lane, plus there are dangerous reefs and rocks to go around. You could get sliced up pretty badly.”
“I might be able to lead us with my echolocation,” Sam offered.
“Not this time,” the scientist said. “But you can wave this around in case any boats are headed this way.” She passed Sam the dive light. “
Reef Runner
,
Reef Runner
, come in?”
Still no response. Tristan and the others sat nervously quiet as the boat continued to drift. Thankfully, the wind soon began to let up, and the rain was tapering off. The squall was passing.
Tristan pushed his wet hair back from his face and looked out over the water. There wasn't much around. As he stared at the ocean's dark surface, a burst of blue-green twinkling grabbed his attention. He leaned over to get a better view. A dark form passed by. He sat up. “Did you see that?”