“There’s definitely a reef in our way. Looks like there’s a gap we could shoot through to get in, but we’re going to have an audience.”
Kurt stood at the controls in the shade of the Bimini top. He was dressed much like Joe, though instead of a faded T-shirt and straw hat he wore a loose-fitting, long-sleeved linen shirt. It had buttons and a pocket and a casual wrinkled look that went with Kurt’s cargo shorts.
“Pretty sure we’ve been under surveillance since we rounded Delgado Point,” Kurt said, referencing a jutting stretch of land two miles behind them. “Five will get you ten the guy with the fishing pole hasn’t caught a thing all day. And the girl on the beach probably has a radio in that tote bag somewhere.”
Rand was a smuggler ensconced on an out-of-the-way little island, but he didn’t exactly live inconspicuously. According to Kurt, he made hefty donations to the local constabulary and other government officials. The kind that allowed for an ostentatious lifestyle. But there were other things to watch for: competitors, angry customers, not to mention agents of foreign governments who might have a bone to pick with his delivery schedule.
Joe offered some options. “We could race in through the gap and make it obvious, or continue on and come back tonight?”
“Don’t have time to wait for nightfall,” Kurt said. “But check the gap once more. I have a feeling it’s not as open as it looks.”
Joe raised the binoculars again and focused on the one spot where the waves tucked in close and then continued on toward the beach unimpeded. He stared for a while, focusing and refocusing as the lenses steamed up in the humid environment. Finally, he saw what Kurt was referring to. A thick rusty chain had been stretched across the gap. It was anchored to unseen concrete pylons hidden in the coral. A miniature version of the “Great Chain” that had been stretched across the Hudson to keep the British ships from sailing upriver during the American Revolution.
“That could be a problem,” Joe admitted. “Don’t want to rip the bottom of the hull out or tear the prop off.”
“Think we can crest it with the surf?”
Joe considered the draft of the boat they’d borrowed, the height of the waves, and the effect of traveling in at high speed, which would lift the boat up, but also make an impact far worse if it occurred. “Fifty-fifty.”
“Good enough for me,” Kurt said.
“What if I’d said thirty-seventy?”
“I’d still try it.”
“Ninety-ten that we crash and get thrown from the boat?”
“That long shot has to hit at some point.” Kurt laughed. “Might as well be now.”
Joe shook his head. He was not surprised. “What if I said I was one hundred percent sure this would end in disaster?”
“I’d figure your math was wrong and try it anyway,” Kurt joked. “Hold on. Here we go.”
Kurt turned the boat away from the beach as he began to pick up speed. Looping around to the south he guided the craft back toward the reef and pushed the throttle up farther. Speed mattered, but hitting the gap with the crest of one of the waves mattered more.
Joe grabbed the gunwale of the boat with one hand and held the straw hat down with the other as Kurt let the engines roar.
The sound caught the attention of the fisherman on the rocks, who dropped his pole and grabbed what looked like a walkie-talkie off the cooler.
The men working on the outboard stopped what they were doing and looked up, but otherwise they didn’t react. The woman propped herself up on her elbows. Eyes hidden behind dark sunglasses as she watched them approach. She was too far away for Joe to detect a smile, but she seemed more curious than afraid.
With Kurt constantly adjusting the throttle, they caught up to the swells and began speeding over them. A smooth ride up, and then down, and then back up again. Because of the peculiar way fluids move, the waves actually picked up speed as they entered the narrow gap, surging through, and then spreading out on the other side.
Aiming to hit the gap with a particular swell ahead of him, Kurt pushed the throttle harder. The twenty-foot Boston Whaler caught up to the back end of the next swell just as it surged into the gap between the corals. The boat rose up onto the hump, threatened to overshoot the crest, and then settled a bit as Kurt feathered the throttle.
The chain in front of them appeared and then vanished beneath the water as the crest of the wave rode over it. A scraping sound raked across the bottom of the hull, passing behind them as they shot the gap.
They were in, the prop was still attached, the hull seemed intact. Joe marveled once again at Kurt’s luck.
Then a jarring impact almost threw him out of the boat. They’d hit a second obstacle: a submerged concrete bollard placed in the water to prevent someone from doing what they’d just done. It punched a hole in the underside of the boat, splintering the fiberglass and throwing the entire craft upward. Joe was airborne for a brief moment, his hat vanishing in the wind. He came down on the deck hard enough to bite a chunk out of his lip.
Holding onto the controls, Kurt managed to remain where he was. He yanked the wheel to the right, pushed the power level to full, and caught the energy of the following wave. It pushed them toward the beach.
Hitting the sand, the boat lurched to a stop. Joe slid into the open bow, slamming against a locker that doubled as a front seating area.
Grunting in discomfort and dabbing his bleeding lip, he looked back at Kurt. “At least we didn’t hit a mine,” he muttered.
Kurt was still standing at the pedestal, but was slowly raising his hands.
