Gerrie Nelson - Lab Notes

David pointed behind the front tires. The jeep straddled a large tree trunk that was piled with sand on one side, which had made it invisible.

Diane zipped up her windbreaker and shouted over the surf and wind. “What can we do?”

“I know a few tricks. But first let’s climb the dunes and look down island.”

The wind played havoc with them as they stumbled up the side of a partially vine-covered dune. It was higher and steeper than it had looked from the jeep. Sliding sand filled their shoes and abraded their feet, making each step more painful than the last.

Arriving at the top, they felt they had climbed Everest. Except for the temperature, conditions couldn’t have been much worse. Sand blasted their skin, and the howling wind made hearing difficult and knocked them off balance at times.

David dug his feet in the sand and aimed the binoculars down the beach.

“There they are,” he shouted. I see two sets of campers. One pick-up truck. One Humvee. There’s a large form in the surf, not far from the Humvee. That’s probably our destination.”

David offered the binoculars to Diane who hesitated, then put them up to her eyes. She scanned the beach stopping at the dark shape in the surf. “Let’s get the jeep unstuck,” she shouted in a quivering voice.

Diane and David filled their shoes with surf water, ran it back and dumped it around the front tires, then wedged the floor mats under the rear wheels.

They climbed into the jeep, brushed the sand from their faces and gulped some of the water they had purchased on the other side of the causeway.

David started the engine and horsed the jeep around, spinning and weaving until it broke free. He pulled ahead to some hard-packed sand, and Diane ran back to retrieve the mats.

They were underway again. But driving hazards were no longer their primary focus. Diane sat quietly picking sand from her jacket, grain by grain. What if it was Woodwind down the beach? Despite pressure from Vincent’s family and her friends, she had been clinging to the belief that a memorial Mass was premature—what a joke if Vincent walked in on his own wake… But now…

David glanced over at her, then back to the beach ahead. “Why did Vincent go on that race?” His voice was gentle.

After a short silence, Diane said, “It was a lifelong goal.” She continued picking sand.

“How did you feel about that?”

“I knew that offshore racing had been his dream… and I had always been supportive of the idea…” Her tone was sad, resigned.

David waited.

“But when he chose that particular race…” she struggled with the words she had never said out loud before. “…the timing pointed to influences other than self-actualization.”

“Like what?”

“He was dissatisfied… suspicious.”

“About what?”

“You name it… the fate of Peruvase, Bellfort’s business practices in general. And he missed the University—his position there.”

“His suspicions, were they just hunches? Or did he have proof of some wrongdoing?”

Suddenly, Diane looked up from her labors and spotted a dark form just ahead. She grabbed for the binoculars and focused on the stern of the beached boat. Her breath caught in her throat. Her heart constricted. Her denial phase was over.

Diane stood beside the wrecked hull, unaware of the wind’s assault on her skin and the surf washing over her feet. Woodwind had met her lee shore. The boat lay heeled over to the starboard side, her stern angled in toward the beach. It was a somber sight.

David had gone over to thank the turtle watchers for reporting Woodwind’s beaching and for keeping an eye on her. Diane walked slowly past the stern, then around to the starboard side, which lay buried in sand. That’s when she saw the damage.

Part of the bow, just forward of the mast, had been chewed off. The leading edge of wood and fiberglass appeared as though some macabre vivisection had taken place with the use of a giant hacksaw. She covered her mouth to suppress a cry.

David reappeared. His arm reached around her shoulders. “Are you okay?”

Dazed, Diane leaned into him. “What in God’s name could have happened out there?” she wailed.

Diane felt the sudden need to get on board. Maybe Vincent had left some clue. Maybe the video camera was still there and in working order. She could see its brine encrusted case from where she stood. She freed herself from David’s grip and headed for the boat.

Using the steering wheel as a handle, Diane pulled herself up into the near-vertical cockpit. She looked around the devastated vessel, but nothing there evoked Vincent’s presence. Then she remembered the watertight compartments up under the gunwales.

Diane planted her foot on the wheel post and pulled herself up to the port seat. Unlatching the locker hatch, she was able to wiggle her arms and shoulders into the opening. Once inside, she knew exactly where to find the hidden latch.

The compartments on either side of the boat had been installed by drug runners, Woodwind’s former owners. It occurred to her that those watertight spaces were probably responsible for keeping Woodwind afloat long enough to get ashore.

Diane flipped the latch. The hatch popped open to reveal the dry clothes she had stowed as back-ups in case Vincent had a wet trip. She carefully removed one of Vincent’s T-shirts. Printed across the front of it were Louis Pasteur’s words—Vincent’s favorite quote: “… chance favors the prepared mind .” She pressed the shirt to her cheek and, for the first time since his disappearance, she wept.

Diane wiped her face with the T-shirt, replaced her sunglasses and eased herself out of the locker and down off the steering post, the shirt still clutched in her hand.

David stood beside the boat, calf deep in surf, holding a hammer and a screwdriver he had borrowed from the campers. He offered to make an attempt at the Lucite camcorder cover.

David made the climb up over the cockpit look easier than Diane had. But his first few whacks at the camcorder’s Lucite housing did not produce the desired result.

Diane braced herself in the growing surf, which now slapped up against her Capri pants, cuffed above her knees. She watched David’s efforts, then looked toward the missing bow. Conflicting emotions washed over her. Did she really want to view the last moments of Vincent’s life?

At 2 p.m. the Humvee led the way as the little caravan headed north. Storm-heightened waves advanced inland, pushing the group closer and closer to the dunes.

Each vehicle carried precious cargo from the sea. In the Humvee, Styrofoam boxes held endangered Kemp’s ridley sea turtle eggs cradled in Padre Island sand. They were headed to a Galveston laboratory for hatching and eventual release back into the Gulf.

In the pick-up truck, iced-down redfish and speckled trout were headed to San Antonio where they would be the highlights of a birthday barbeque.

In the jeep, a condensation-stained camcorder was on its way back to Houston from where it would spawn waves around the world.

South of the motorcade, a powerful undertow pulled Woodwind back out to sea.

Diane played four notes of Funny Valentine, dropped the cover over the piano keys and cupped her face in her hands. Vincent had made a simple request in his song, but she couldn’t comply.

She doubted she’d ever watch the video again. But she’d always be tormented with horrible visions of the hit and run—her punishment for not going on the race with her husband. If she had been on the boat, she could have taken watch giving Vincent an opportunity to rest. Maybe she would have spotted the big white yacht on radar and averted the collision.