Robert Whitlow - Deeper Water

"We'll stop near the main pier," Zach said.

We passed through residential areas with sandy driveways guarded by dune grass and into an aging business district. Several people on the sidewalks pointed in our direction as we passed. It made me feel special. We turned down a narrow street and parked in front of a meter. Zach turned off the engine. I climbed as gracefully as I could from the sidecar and removed my helmet. My skirt was wrinkled.

"That was fun," I said before Zach asked me. "You're a good driver."

"Thanks, but you drive a car; you ride a motorcycle."

Zach put on a pair of dark sunglasses. He locked the helmets to the motorcycle with a thin steel cable.

"You don't need any money," he said. "Bring your bag or I can lock it in the sidecar."

"Lock it up. All I want is my hat."

There was a cover that slid over the sidecar, turning it into a storage compartment. Without the helmet over my face, I could smell a tinge of salt in the air. The morning breeze was coming in from the ocean. I put on my hat.

"Ocean views, this way," Zach said, retying his hair in a tight ponytail.

Two- and three-story frame houses with rooms to rent crowded against the sidewalk. There weren't many people on the street.

"It will be crowded here by noon," Zach said.

After a couple of blocks the street made a turn to the left, and I could see the blue glint of ocean in the distance. There were seagulls riding the air currents. Sand scattered the sidewalk. The street ended at a modest sand dune. Looking to the right, I could see the pier stretching its thick finger past the surf into deeper water. Tiny figures of fishermen stood at the end of the pier. I took a deep breath, enjoyed the sensation for a few seconds, and exhaled.

The pier was thirty feet above the water and wide enough for two cars to drive side by side. We passed fishermen using long, sturdy poles. Coolers of bait shrimp and fish rested beside the poles. Most of the fishermen were shirtless, tanned, and smoking cigarettes. I kept my eyes directed toward the water.

"What are they fishing for?" I asked Zach.

"Fish."

"What kinds?"

"Saltwater varieties. I'm not an expert about pier fishing."

We passed several black men with poles in the water. "Moses could tell me what kind of fish live in these waters," I said.

"Who?"

"Moses Jones. Our client charged with trespassing."

"Maybe, but as I remember he also sees faces in the water."

We reached the end of the pier. Here were the serious fishermen, each with multiple poles. I watched one man bait four hooks on a single line and fling it into the air. It plopped into the water far below. Nobody seemed to be catching any fish. Gulls cried out as they swooped down, landing on the pier to scoop up bits of discarded baitfish and shrimp.

The pier gave a panoramic view of the beach. When I was eighteen, I'd traveled to the east coast of Florida for a mission outreach sponsored by our church and waded briefly in the Atlantic early one morning before the sunbathers wearing nothing more than brightly colored underwear made their appearance. Even that brief contact with the sea intrigued me. Like a mountain panorama, the ocean revealed the expanse of creation-a vista so big and unfathomable that only an omnipotent God could have fashioned it. With the tide going out the strand was broad, the waves small. Zach and I found an empty spot along the north side of the pier to watch.

"Are there many shells on this beach?" I asked. I couldn't see anyone stooping over.

"No. It's sand, sun, and water."

"The one other time I was at the ocean, I loved collecting shells," I said. "I have a jarful on a shelf in my bedroom at home. Most are broken, but there is still beauty in them."

Zach nodded his head. "People are like that too."

I turned toward him. "Are you teasing me?"

"No."

More people streamed from the oceanfront motels toward the water. Included were the beginnings of the bathing suit crowd. Seeing the bikini-clad women made me wonder where Julie would spend the day.

"I'll help you with the Jones case this week," Zach said, breaking the silence.

"Okay. Just let me know."

We stood beside each other without speaking for a long time. A crazy thought raced through my mind that Zach wanted to throw me off the pier. I gauged the distance to shallow water. If I survived the fall it would be an easy swim. Zach touched my arm, and I jumped.

"Are you ready to go back to the motorcycle?" he asked.

"Yes."

As we walked off the pier, the fear of harm at Zach's hands didn't leave me. It would be easy for him to ram the sidecar into a tree, endangering my life.

"Why did you invite me on the motorcycle ride?" I asked.

"I'll tell you at our next stop."

"How far is that?"

"It's on the island."

I put on my helmet and stepped into the sidecar. I wanted to return to Mrs. Fairmont's house as soon as possible. Zach backed the motorcycle away from the curb with his feet and started the engine. We retraced our route onto the island. Before crossing the bridge at the marsh, Zach abruptly took a side road.

"Where are we going?" I asked, my anxiety rising.

"You'll see."

After a few hundred yards, the paving gave way to sand. There were a few houses hidden among the trees. Zach turned down a driveway with no house at the end of it and stopped the motorcycle. It was a lonely spot. My heart was pounding in my chest. I sat in the sidecar, not moving.

"Get out here," he said.

"I'm ready to go back to Mrs. Fairmont's house," I said, trying to keep my voice calm.

"And I need to spend several hours at the office. We'll only be here a few minutes."

I licked my lips and climbed out. Zach didn't bother to lock up the helmets.

"It's a short path," he said, heading off into the underbrush.

I didn't know whether to refuse and stay by the motorcycle or run down the road for help. I reluctantly followed. After about twenty yards we came into a clearing. There was the foundation of a destroyed house and a rickety pier with a lot of the boards missing. Zach pointed at the outline of the house.

"The house burned down shortly before I moved to Savannah. Mr. Appleby represented the owners who had to sue the insurance company on the policy."

"Why?"

"The company alleged arson. There was no question it was a set fire, but the evidence connecting our clients was sketchy. They used the insurance money to pay off business debts and avoid bankruptcy instead of rebuilding the house."

The strip of land extended out and provided a nice view up and down Tybee Creek. In the distance I could see cars crossing over the bridge.

"It's a pretty spot," I said. "Can we go now?"

"You can see better from here," Zach said, walking toward the water.

I followed him to a gazebo near the edge of the water. It didn't take many months for wood to weather in the salt air. Only a few flecks of white paint remained. The vines planted at the edge of the structure were in summer green. Zach didn't enter the gazebo but sat on the front steps. I stood beside him. He was right about the view.

"I like to come here and pray," he said. "I've been in every season of the year."

I looked at him in surprise. I'd been thinking about him in such a negative way that his comment caught me off guard.

"Why here?" I managed.

"It reminds me of a place I liked to go in California. It wasn't near the ocean, but it felt the same."

"What sort of place?"

"Up in the mountains near an abandoned cabin that had fallen in on itself. That's where the Lord told me to come to Savannah."

I sat down on the far end of the steps, leaving a healthy distance between us. "How did that happen? You promised to tell me."

"I know." Zach smiled and took off his sunglasses. "And I try to always keep my promises."