Scott Williams - The Pulse

This included conventional tackle such as rods and reels for trolling astern and casting, as well as drop lines, collapsible bait and crab traps, and the underwater spear-fishing gear that most cruisers in tropical waters carried as standard equipment. In addition, Larry said the big tandem-cockpit sea kayak Scully had been paddling the day Artie had met him would be invaluable for fishing and other forms of seafood gathering if it came to that. The 20-foot wide overall beam of the catamaran made it a simple matter to lash it across the decks forward of the mast. Larry said he’d bought this 19-foot kayak specifically for the purpose of serving as a dinghy on the catamaran, as it was faster and easier to paddle long distances than any conventional rowing dinghy.

“It’s more seaworthy, too,” he said. “Heck, with two strong paddlers, this thing can go out in about any conditions the big boat can handle.”

“But there’s only room for two,” Artie said.

“Yeah, well, considering how things are now, I doubt we’ll all want to leave the boat at the same time. Someone needs to stay with it to keep an eye on things anyway. Speaking of which, I’ve got a special place for this.” Larry unzipped a nylon carrying case that was among the last items yet to be stowed and pulled out a stainless-steel Mossberg 12-gauge pump shotgun.

“I sure hope we don’t need that! ” Artie said.

“I’ve always kept a shotgun on board whenever I could,” Larry said. “Never had to use one, but things could be different now—a lot different. I just wanted to let you know where I’m keeping it. There’s a hidden compartment right under the shelf that’s over your bunk in the nav station. I’m sleeping in the galley hull myself—where the food and coffee is.”

“What about Scully?”

“He’s got the forward single bunk cabin in the port hull when we’re at sea, but he prefers to sleep on deck in all but the roughest weather.”

Before they left the harbor, Pete and Maryanne rowed over from Celebration to where the Casey Nicole was anchored to share a cup of coffee and wish them luck on the voyage. By the time they left, the afternoon trade winds had kicked in, and Larry said it was time to go see what the new boat could do. Getting underway was much easier than it had been on the larger Celebration. As soon as Artie had the anchor on deck, Larry and Scully working together had the main and jib set and Larry steered off the wind to let them fill. Artie was totally unprepared for what happened next. Instead of heeling over and slowly gathering way like the schooner Ibis and the big cutter-rigged Tayana had, the catamaran simply accelerated, converting wind power to forward motion with a suddenness that almost caused him to fall. The twin bows sliced through the chop of the harbor with spray flying on both sides and made for the opening to the sea. Larry and Scully whooped with delight and Artie joined in. It felt like they were practically flying over the clear water, and he thought that if they could just keep this up, he would be reunited with Casey in no time.

Once they put Culebra astern, Larry aimed the bows toward the big mountain on Puerto Rico and soon they were in the heaving swells of the open ocean, the boat pitching fore and aft but not rolling from side to side as had the only other sailboats Artie had experienced. The distant island grew more distinct by the minute as they closed on it at 17 knots, changing from a hazy blue outline to a landscape of mountains that rose sharply behind slivers of sandy beach interspersed with condos, houses, and hotels. Larry was clearly pleased with his new boat and was grinning from ear to ear as he pointed out various design elements that contributed to her seaworthiness and speed. When they were about six miles from the main island, he steered for a tiny outlying islet that rose like a mirage from the coral-studded waters not far from a larger cay to the north. The islet was the postcard-perfect image of a deserted tropical isle—a rounded, sandy hump of beach, shaded by a grove of tall coconut palms and little other vegetation. It was the kind of place a cartoonist might draw to depict a scene in which a castaway is washed ashore in paradise.

Larry and Scully doused the spinnaker and brought the cat around to sail up to within 20 feet of the shore, where the water was only waist deep. Scully leapt in and carried the bow anchor up on the beach, while Larry hauled in on the rode of a stern anchor he’d deployed as they approached. When the lines were adjusted, the Casey Nicole floated almost motionless over transparent waters alive with multicolored fish.

“Welcome to Isleta Palominito,” Larry said. “This is one of the coolest little islands in this part of the Caribbean.”

“It is beautiful,” Artie admitted. “I didn’t know there were still uninhabited islands like this, especially so close to a crowded island like Puerto Rico.”

“Oh yeah, there are a lot more than you’d think. This one is one of the best, though. I’ve brought more than one of my Puertorriqueña girlfriends over here for a night or two of playing ‘castaway.’”

“I’ll bet you have.”

“It gets crowded with weekend boaters from the main island, but even in normal times it’s usually deserted during the week. And now—I wouldn’t expect anyone to bother coming over here. It’ll be safer than anchoring near Fajardo, and there’s nothing we need from a city like that anyway. So enjoy your evening, Doc. It’ll be your last chance to go ashore for a few days.”

Larry and Scully worked on tightening the rigging and making other adjustments necessary after the first sail, with Artie helping as much as he could, following their instructions, but not really knowing what to do or how to tie the fancy nautical knots they both made look effortless. Then Larry was in the water with his mask, snorkel, and speargun, while Scully climbed two of the tall coconut palms ashore and cut down more than two dozen green drinking nuts, bringing them back aboard to store for the voyage. At sunset, Artie walked around the sandy perimeter of the tiny island, which only took a few minutes, as it was less than an acre of total land area.

That evening they cooked the grouper Larry had speared over a small fire on the beach, the smoke and the steady sea breeze keeping away the no-see-ums that had tortured Artie on the beach at Culebra. Artie realized that in other circumstances, if he had not been so desperate to find out if Casey was okay, nothing could have persuaded him to hurry away from such an idyllic setting, and he began to understand his younger brother’s obsession with boats and the island lifestyle. He wished Casey could be here experiencing this with him, and that this nightmare was really just a bad dream they would wake from to find themselves all together on a vacation in paradise.

When he crawled into his bunk later that night, with the smoked acrylic hatch over his head open wide to give him a view of the uncountable stars arcing overhead in the Milky Way, he felt a sense of peace and assurance that Casey was okay and that he would soon be with her, whisked across the sea on his brother’s wonderful boat. Sleep came easily, and the noise and confusion that shattered his dreams after midnight didn’t seem real, until finally he was wide awake and realized they were.

Voices of strange men, yelling orders in a language he recognized as Spanish…. Scully yelling back in his West Indian accent…. A scuffling and stomping of feet on deck…. Something banging against the side of the hull…. A ringing clang of steel hitting steel…. A muffled scream of pain and then a big splash….

Artie sprang to the main hatch leading to the deck and looked out. Scully was crouched on the forward slatted deck, wielding the machete he had used earlier to open coconuts like a sword, as he parried the blows of a smaller man slashing at him with a similar weapon. When Larry yelled as he started out of the port hull where he’d been sleeping, a second stranger in the cockpit, also armed with a machete, turned in his direction and attacked him with a murderous downward blow. Artie saw his brother raise his right arm in an attempt to defend himself just as the blade came down, causing him to fall back into the companionway opening and out of sight. At that moment, he remembered the shotgun Larry had placed near his bunk and ducked back below to grab it. He hadn’t handled a 12-gauge pump since the last time he and Larry had hunted pheasants with their father when he was still in high school, but neuromuscular memory took over when it was in his hands, and he racked the slide to chamber a round and pointed the muzzle toward the opening to the deck just in time to see the assailant who had stricken Larry looming over his own hatch. He’d seen enough in the brief seconds he’d looked on deck to know that he had no choice but to pull the trigger. He winced at the blast of the 12-gauge buckshot shell, so loud inside the tiny confines of the cabin that he heard nothing but ringing that felt like a vise tightening on his brain from the outside in. The muzzle flash in the dark blinded him temporarily, and when his eyes readjusted, the man trying to get at him from the deck was gone. Artie racked the slide to chamber a fresh round and climbed up the steps to help Scully. He expected to see the man he’d shot sprawled across the cockpit floor, but there was no body there. The white paint of the cockpit floor shone brightly in the moonlight, unmarred by blood or any other sign of the intruder whom he was certain he’d hit point blank.