Randy White - Twelve Mile Limit

“I don’t know how they found out who I was, but a couple of guys from the bar came over and introduced themselves. Part of the SAM crowd, one was from Jacksonville, the other from Palm Beach. The moment the first one opened his mouth, I knew how it was going to go, that’s how many times I’ve been through it in the past few weeks. The ones who don’t believe my story, they always start out very polite-like, hey, congratulations, what an honor to meet you. They’ve read all about it, know all the details. Which fooled me the first couple of times, but not anymore.

“It’s something in the tone of their voice. That’s how I can tell. Way too friendly and impressed, trying to make me feel important, but what they’re really trying to do is set me up, trap me, like amateur interrogators. Tonight, the guy from Palm Beach-and he was pretty drunk, too-goes on for ten minutes or so, making backhanded accusations by telling the story to his friend, until finally he stops, looks at me, and says, ‘Lady, how stupid do you think people really are? You’re telling us that three adults in inflated vests just vanished off the face of the earth? Bullshit. Okay, so pretend like we’re not all idiots here and tell the truth. What happened was, you cooked up some drug deal with some badasses from Miami or maybe South America, and they wasted your three pals to make it nice and clean. Somehow you had an in with them. Maybe one of the drug bosses had a taste for redheads, so they let you live.

‘Or maybe what happened was, you and your pals decided to sink the boat for insurance money, and something went real wrong. They weren’t wearing their vests, like you said. Something else I heard was about you and the others maybe being involved with some kind of porno ring.

…’”

Amelia let the sentence trail off, and I noticed that her hands had gradually clenched into fists. After a moment, she said, “That’s when I stopped him. I’d had enough. It’s true that I once had to defend this porno slimeball, and the case got a lot of press, so that’s where that nasty little rumor got started. But no way was I going to let him associate the other three with that.

“You know how they say redheads have a temper? I can’t speak for the others, but I’ll only let someone push me so far. So I stood up and let the guy have it with both barrels. I know all the words, and how to use them. I realize I’m no great beauty, but I’ve had to back off enough of the casting-couch macho types to know exactly where to aim, and the guy didn’t like where my words hit him. So that’s when Jeth stood up and got involved. Then, out of nowhere, the actor was there, right in his face. Gunnar Camphill to the rescue, take two. It was a damn ugly thing to watch, wasn’t it, Doc? Makes me feel sick inside to think about the sound their fists made when they were hitting each other. The flesh-on-bone sound.”

I’d known her for, what? less than eight hours, but I’d already accepted her as what Tomlinson once defined as a PBR-a person who is reality based. One night, over beer, we’d kicked around the definition and more or less refined it. A PBR wasn’t just a brand of blue-collar beer, it was also someone who was not dominated by neurosis, ambition, or ego. It was a person who was relatively honest, rational, and reasonable most of the time; a man or woman who had a general sense of his or her own worth and limitations, who acknowledged the worth of others, who demonstrated a sense of humor, and didn’t take him- or herself too seriously.

With a definition so broad, you’d expect to meet lots and lots of PBRs.

Instead, I seem to be meeting fewer and fewer.

In my opinion, Amelia Gardner qualified, and I would trust her until, if, and when she did something to make me think otherwise. Now I reached over, put my hand on her arm, and squeezed gently. “That remark you made about ‘great beauty,’ I hope you’re not suggesting you aren’t attractive. Because you are. But you’re tired, I can see it in your face. Know what might be a good thing for you to do right now? It doesn’t look like Ransom’s going to be back any time soon, so let me walk you over to my house, change the sheets, and put you to bed. I’ve got a big hammock strung on the porch. A starry night like this, no bugs, I’d rather sleep out there anyway.”

Laughter can communicate a variety of emotions. The amused sound she made was shy, a little weary, but pleased. “I was always the lanky, gawky tomboy girl. All elbows and legs, with no chest at all. I kept waiting for my body to change, but it never did, so now I’m the lanky, gawky attorney lady, all elbows and legs and still no chest at all. But thanks anyway. It was a nice way to tell me I look tired.” She stood, stretched, and yawned, still smiling. “Let me say my good nights, and I’ll take you up on the offer.”

I waited while Amelia fetched an overnight bag from her car, then I walked her to the house. Gave her a quick look at my lab-no octopi or crabs missing-and then took her through the screen door into the cottage and showed her how things worked. Little propane stove for tea. Small ship’s refrigerator if she wanted a snack. If she couldn’t sleep, there were books on the shelves and a shortwave radio near the Celestron telescope that was angled toward the north window. I laid out fresh sheets and towels, then returned along the mangrove path, back to the marina, to give her some time and privacy to use the outdoor shower and change into the XX T-shirt I’d loaned her to use as a nightgown.

I expected the party would have ended. It was well after three by now, but Mack and Jeth, most of the liveaboards and guides, were still there, still sitting around the blazing fire, laughing softly, talking in early-morning voices. Still riding that emotional, adrenaline high, replaying the events at’Tween Waters. We’d won the battles and won the war, and each and every member wanted to cement his or her role in the way things had transpired, secure their place in the marina’s oral history here and now, at the edge of the fire, before memories were tarnished by the edge of the first morning light.

For how many hundreds of centuries had this ceremony been repeated, on every continent, by men and women sitting around burning wood at the water’s edge?

The scene touched some atavistic chord in me, created the illusion of ancient memory, but, illusion or not, it was a moving and pleasing scene to behold.

There were people milling around on the deepwater docks, too, I noticed. Four, maybe six. I couldn’t tell. I walked past the sumping-aerator hiss of bait tanks, beneath the sodium security lights, and out toward the darker fringes of A dock, sailboats with halyards a-tapping off to my left. I heard a splash, then another splash. Then heard JoAnn’s alto whisper. “Doc? Hey Doc’s here!”

With the security light behind me, in the blue light of a waning half moon, I could now see JoAnn and Rhonda standing on the dock, naked but for bikini panties. JoAnn, short and Rubenesque; Rhonda, tall and stork-like with skinny hips and hair clipped short. They had their arms wrapped around themselves, for the night had turned cool. But as I neared, JoAnn dropped her arms to her side, heavy breasts right there for me to see, and said, laughing, her voice fluid with alcohol, “We decided it was a night to break marina rules. We’re all gonna go skinny dippin’! No exceptions, pal!”

I stopped and placed hands on my hips, smiling. Down the mangrove shoreline, at my house, I could see the solitary figure of Amelia Gardner lifting her arms, head back, washing herself beneath my outdoor shower, her body long, lean, and milky-white when touched by the moon. Because of the direction my cottage faces-all water and mangroves-anyone using the shower gets the impression of total privacy.