Randy White - Seduced

“Do you feel your life is in danger?” she asked.

Yes, I did, which is why I phoned my sheriff’s deputy friend next. Birdy Tupplemeyer is a high-octane woman-a three-year veteran of the force who does not share my reluctance to use profanity or hop into bed with married men. The time would come when I could confide to her about Kermit, but that could wait. I gave her the same information-still shouting, and forced to repeat details, but in a less formal way.

“The crazy fool’s gonna get us both killed,” I yelled.

“Are you packing?” Her tone was judgmental. I could picture her in a two-piece, pacing by her aunt’s Palm Beach swimming pool.

“Packing a gun?”

“Hell yes, you ninny. This dude-you ever seen him before? Doesn’t matter. If you’re packing, stop your damn boat and threaten to put a couple rounds up his ass. Warn him first-all the standard bullshit. Then do it! Go ahead. Put your phone on Speaker so I can testify the scumbag had it coming.”

“Only fishing gear,” I hollered. “Isn’t there someone you can call? It’s Saturday. The marine division-there has to be a police boat out here somewhere.”

“Jesus Christ, Hannah. Carry; always, always carry. How many times have I told you! And it’s not like you haven’t already rung that bell.”

Shot a man, she meant.

This was true; an incident I rarely discuss.

“Call somebody, for heaven’s sake,” I said, and stowed the phone.

Racing toward me was a blur of buoys and floating bamboo poles, a few with rags attached to make them visible. They were tied to nylon ropes from which bags of clams were suspended, each buoy anchored to the bottom. The incoming tide held the buoys taut. Ripples showed me the direction the ropes lay and created hundreds of narrow channels to choose from. Stray even a foot, it meant trouble: a mile of nylon rope would snag the propeller and strangle an engine dead.

I waited until the last possible instant to make my turn, then cleaved an angling course. Rows of white buoys scattered to make room. Until then, Yosemite Sam had been taunting me from both sides of the boat, but he realized the danger and fell in line, so close that the nose of his boat shadowed my transom.

Crazy or not, the man was no stranger to water. I began to doubt my plan to lose him here in the lonely backcountry. Maybe it was wiser to return to the main channel, where a hundred witnesses might dissuade him from whatever violence he had in mind.

Road rage on the bay. It is rare among fishermen, but it happens.

I snuck another glance back. Standing high above me, he responded with the peace sign and blew me another kiss. He appeared to be enjoying himself. Scared as I was, that made me mad. On my throttle is a trim switch that can tilt the engine clear of the water. I used it and held tight. The chines of the Maverick threatened to break free when the engine lifted. Soon my propeller was shooting water like a fire hose into Sam’s boat.

I didn’t see what happened, but the finesse worked. When I looked again, the catamaran was dolphining wildly off course, kicking a wake of Styrofoam and mud. It gave me some breathing room. I kept watch while exiting the clam lease and got my boat trimmed, the whole time expecting cartoon Sam’s engine to stall in a tangle of nylon.

It didn’t happen. Somehow he’d dodged enough lines to keep going and was circling back. No idiotic grin on his face now. He reached for something and came up with a short-handled gaff-a stainless hook attached to a pole. It was a threat; he wanted me to see it. I acknowledged the threat with a middle finger, not the peace sign. His gravelly voice was oddly high-pitched for whatever it was he hollered. Then he buried the throttle and came at me full speed.

I was already moving, but not in the direction of my dock. Enraged people lose their ability to reason. I was counting on that; wanted him too mad to think or see clearly. At the wheel with my back to him, I used a middle finger again as if I, too, were having fun-and, truth is, I did feel a wild moment of abandonment.

There was no time to gauge what effect my taunting had. Ahead was a jumble of islands, all uninhabited. Between lay a mile of thin water, the bottom pocked with potholes and oyster bars, some visible, some not. I knew those bars well. So did my Uncle Jake back in the days when he’d taken Katharine Hepburn oystering. The winter months are best, always on a spring low tide. Jake would equip me with boots and gloves so I could wade those jagged shoals without getting cut to ribbons.

As I knew, the biggest oysters lay in troughs between the bars on the bottom that was never exposed. One of those troughs was half the width of my skiff. That was wide enough.

I steered toward it and ignored Sam, who was angling to cut off my escape. I triangulated the distance by instinct. Unless he actually intended to ram me, he would have to reduce speed, then turn sharply, to stay on my tail.

That’s what happened. I flew past him, flipped another bird, and let my wake mask a trough through an oyster ridge that was also masked by water. Sam swung too wide. I didn’t see what transpired, but I heard it. The howl of an outboard slamming aground is as distinctive as a braying donkey. The staccato Hee-haw-haw is similar, minus the metallic edge if a propeller is sheered.

When I heard metal, I knew I was safe yet didn’t slow until I found a pothole deep enough to drop off plane.

I looked back.

The black catamaran, with its tower and twin Yamahas, sat exposed in a foot of water. It looked like a trophy on a pedestal. At least one of its propellers had been bent. Yosemite Sam had managed to stay aboard, but that would be hard to prove because he was wet and mud-splattered from the soaking my engine had given him.

“If you stopped to gather oysters,” I yelled, “it’s better when the tide goes out. By then, you’ll need a boat with wheels.”

I expected profanity, untethered rage. Instead, the man shrugged in a sheepish way and replied, “You ever have one of those days? Some of the dumb things I do, I swear, there’re times I don’t think I got a brain in my head. Especially when I’m trying to impress a pretty woman.” He commented on his bent propeller, then asked, “You ain’t mad, are you?”

My lord… the guy was deranged. Or was he acting? There was some nasal Cracker in his voice, but the accent had a guttural tinge. German, Pennsylvania Dutch… no telling. Maybe this was satire, his parody of Southerners and other hicks.

The possibility implied a slyness-and an intellect-that scared me, as did his size-a huge head, chest, and hands. Yet I did my best to show a brave front.

I switched off my engine. “What’s wrong with you? This morning, you saw we had a fish on and intentionally cut us off. Then you pull a stunt like this? If I wanted to press charges, I’ve got my clients as witnesses.”

“Uh-oh, I knew it. You’re mad. Serves me right, I guess.” This was said in the glum way of a child who’d been scolded. He swung down to the deck with surprising agility. The catamaran hull tilted beneath his weight. “All I wanted was to get a closer look.”

“At a fish? We lost a big snook because of you. Then you nearly swamped us.”

“Sure am sorry,” he said, “but you’re wrong about my reasons. My clients catch plenty of fish. What I wanted was a closer look at you.”

Good God. Now he was hitting on me?

I said, “How many beers have you had today? If you’re not drunk, you’ve lost your mind.”

“Hell, I’ll admit it. Probably a little of both. Here, I’ll prove it”-he began pawing through a console drawer-“I got a fishing magazine someplace with your picture on the front. A real pretty one. I was bragging to my clients about it. Then there you were, stealing one of my best snook holes. Not that I minded, ’cause of who you are. Like fate, you know?”