Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

At that moment, the vehicle made an unfamiliar left turn. Enrique leaned forward and asked, “Why the detour?” Only then did he realize the man behind the wheel was not his new chauffeur.

Enrique reached for his pistol. But the driver’s reflexes were quicker. Enrique Martinez would never be heard from again.

The word spread throughout BRI: “The Coast Guard Corpus Christi was on the phone with Diane.” It had been more than two months since Vincent’s disappearance.

Diane thanked the caller, gently replaced the phone in its cradle and stared out the window at the bay.

David Crowley appeared in her office doorway. “Knock, knock.”

“Come in,” she said softly, without looking up.

David walked in, eased himself into a chair across the desk from her and studied her face.

“They think they might have found Woodwind, ” she said in a flat tone.

“Where?”

“South Texas. A sailboat has washed up on a barrier island—Padre Island. Some sea turtle watchers reported it. It’s partly buried in sand, and most of the name is gone. ‘Wind’ is the only word visible on the transom.”

Diane continued without taking a breath: “The Coast Guard suggested I fly down there to identify the boat. They couldn’t give me anything more specific than: ‘On the beach, south of Corpus Christi.’ I need more information than that. Or what’s the point in my trekking down there? I’m not familiar with the area. But even if I were, how could it be Woodwind? Her last known coordinates placed her 400 miles south of there. And the officer agreed with me that probably half of all sailboat names have the word ‘wind’ in them—”

“Do you want me go with you?”

For a moment David’s kind offer threw her off balance.

Then she sucked in a ragged breath and blinked back tears. “Okay. Yes…. Thank you.”

Padre Island National Seashore is the longest undeveloped barrier island in the world. It is separated from the mainland by the Laguna Madre, which stretches from Corpus Christi Bay in Texas to Rio Soto la Marina in Tamaulipas, Mexico.

Throughout history Padre Island has been a wilderness, with the exception of a settlement established by a Spanish priest in the early 1800’s. Before that time, only nomadic Native Americans, Spanish troops and survivors of three shipwrecks in the 1500’s were known to come to the island.

Padre Island has been owned by four different nations: Spain, Mexico, Republic of Texas and the United States. It was designated a National Seashore by the U.S. in 1968.

Of the island’s 65.5 miles of beach on the Gulf of Mexico, 55 miles are open to four-wheel-drive vehicles only .

The Padre Island National Seashore entrance booth was piling up with sand on its windward side. David lowered the jeep’s window and paid the fee. Then he took the beach permit from the park ranger and handed it over to Diane.

“How far y’all goin’?” the khaki-clad ranger yelled over the wind.

“”We’re gonna take a quick look at the surf, then duck back in again.” David said.

The ranger nodded. He knew about peoples’ fascination with storms. “That system out there’s s’posed to cause some unusually high tides. You could get cut off if you go down island too far.”

David nodded in appreciation of the warning, then put the jeep in drive. But the ranger wasn’t finished with them yet.

“This afternoon, I’ll probably have to evacuate a few hardy fishermen and some determined Kemp’s ridley sea turtle conservationists encamped down ‘ere past the five mile point. High tide’s around three o’clock, according to the chart. But Mama Nature’s gonna send us an unscheduled preview today.”

With that, he reached out and thumped the vehicle door. “ Y’all better get goin’ now if yer gonna make it back. Remember to stay in the tire tracks that’re already there.”

David gave a half salute, Diane waved and they pulled away, heading toward the Gulf. After a minute, David stopped and shifted into park. The rental jeep shimmied on its chassis from yet another blast of wind. He turned to Diane. “You sure we want to do this today? It’s your call.”

Diane glanced at her watch. She knew what David was thinking: They had been thrice warned. Last evening the Padre Island Visitor Center’s recorded message reported tropical storm development fifty miles offshore with deteriorating weather and beach conditions.

This morning, throughout Corpus Christi Airport, Diane heard fretting about the coming weather, in Spanish as well as English. And Maria, the car rental agent, had all but insisted that they purchase extra insurance after David requested a four-wheel drive vehicle that would handle well on the beach.

In a stern, motherly tone, Maria asked if they were aware the National Park Service did not tow vehicles. And the cost for a private wrecker could be several hundred, even a thousand dollars to come “down island”—that was if they could even call for help. Cell phone service out there was spotty at best. Then there was the possibility that the wrecker wouldn’t even be able to get to them.

Now, they had the park ranger’s assurance that it wouldn’t be just another day at the beach.

Diane rolled the permit into a cone shape, then rubbed it flat against her knee. “What are the chances the storm will wash Woodwind back out to sea? If, in fact, it is Woodwind. ”

“We don’t know how far up on the beach the boat is. Of course, the higher the tide and the rougher the surf, the greater the chance she’ll be dislodged.”

Diane turned and made eye contact with David. “Then we’d better get to it today.”

“Here we go.” He reset the trip mileage log, put the jeep in four-wheel drive and headed out.

“David?”

“Yeah?”

“Have you ever driven on sand?”

“I grew up near here. Learned to drive on the beach.”

“Good.” Her voice cracked. “Thank you for coming.” She glanced at her watch again. It was 10:30 a.m.

The tracks the ranger spoke of were partly blown over with fresh sand. David watched for deep spots while Diane kept an eye on the columns of angry surf marching in from an inky backdrop on the distant horizon. Sand dunes loomed to their right, a reminder that they had limited space for retreat when the moon saw fit to pull the tide back in their direction.

A half hour south, the well-traveled path ran closer to the surf over teeth-jarring washboard sand. From time to time, they voted on whether to plow through the water or ford the uncharted sand above the tide line.

Ahead of the storm, hordes of suicidal Portuguese men-of-war smashed themselves onto the beach and flocks of worried sea birds paced at water’s edge rather than taking flight.

The jeep zigzagged through soft sand and splashed through water. All the while David recited the mantra: “Just keep moving, just keep moving….”

At eleven-thirty the trip log read five miles. Diane pulled the binoculars out of the back seat and scanned up ahead. She couldn’t make out anything but more beach and dunes and surf. She offered the binoculars to David.

He scanned one-handed, but the vehicle’s erratic motion made focusing difficult. Just as he handed the binoculars back to Diane, the front tires rolled off an edge and buried themselves in the sand. David weaved the jeep back and forth trying to grab some traction, but to no avail.

He muscled the door against the wind, jumped out and checked under the front tires. “Dammit,” he shouted. Diane climbed out of the jeep and was assaulted by a blast of sand. Her sunglasses protected her eyes, but her face stung and her teeth felt gritty.