Scott Williams - The Pulse

“There’s only a few places in this part of the Keys where a boat with a tall mast can get under the bridges,” Larry said, “and this is one of the highest spans.”

Artie could see the bridge looming ahead out of the darkness as they closed the gap. Scully eased the sheets to spill some wind and reduce speed as they approached the channel under the elevated section of the span. It was a surreal scene after being so long at sea and among less-developed islands. Here was a modern concrete and steel highway bridge that was totally silent in the absence of traffic and totally dark without the lights on its lampposts lit or the headlights of cars shining. As they drew nearer, they could see parked vehicles spread out at intervals on the roadway overhead.

“They’ve been there since they stalled out, I suppose,” Artie said.

“Yeah, I’m sure. All the traffic to and from Key West has to come this way. It wouldn’t be the best place to be right now, unless you had a boat.”

“My God, can you imagine how many cars must be stuck on the Causeway? It’s much longer than this. I hate to think of what it must be like for anyone to get stuck in the middle of a bridge like that and have to walk to the shore.”

“It would be a nightmare for sure,” Larry said. “But you don’t have to worry about Casey being in a mess like that, at least. From what she and Jessica told me during their vacation last summer, most of their life in the city revolves right around the campus and the immediate area nearby.”

“Yeah, unless she tried to leave. After this many days without electricity and phones, I don’t know if she and Jessica could sit still that long.”

“Just try not to worry; we’ll be there in just a few more days now. Soon as we pass under that bridge, we’re in the Gulf!”

Artie was elated to be back in U.S. waters, two-thirds of their voyage behind them. But he still couldn’t help but worry about Casey, especially now as he saw the reality that even a country as modern as the United States was shut down and blacked out. Looking up at the rail just before they sailed under the bridge, he was startled to see movement. There were two people leaning over to look at them.

“Hey! Stop that boat and give us a ride!” one yelled. The other one threw something at them that they could not see, but a couple of seconds later there was a huge splash in their wake as something heavy hit the water.

“Rock! Watch your heads!” Larry said.

“Fockin’ kids, mon.” Scully said as he looked up.

Just then they moved out of danger as the boat slid under the overpass and was hidden from the view of anyone above. Scully hardened the sheets as soon as they were between the pilings, and the Casey Nicole accelerated out from under the other side, but whoever had thrown the rock didn’t follow up and in a few minutes the bridge was receding astern.

Larry said there were still several scattered keys and shoal areas to the north of the bridge that they would have to be careful to avoid as they made their way to the open Gulf, but he knew the waters, and the moon was now high enough to provide good visibility, especially in the absence of lights ashore. The crab traps he had mentioned before were evident everywhere on this side of the island chain, marked by floating white buoys that were so numerous Scully had to constantly steer around them. With no inboard engine and consequently no prop in the water to hang up on the buoy lines, the markers were really no threat to the Casey Nicole, but since they showed up clearly in the moonlight, Scully avoided them anyway out of long habit on other boats. By midnight, they were back north off the extensive shallows and shoals on the Gulf side of the Keys and in the open sea once again. Larry went back below to retire to his bunk now that they were beyond the navigation hazards of the Keys, and Artie and Scully took turns keeping watch. Artie stayed on deck to rest even when he was off duty, the night being so nice with the light of the moon and the barely perceptible swell of the Gulf as the boat moved north at eight knots in a light breeze. He was elated that no other major obstacles stood between him and New Orleans. If all went as planned, they would be sailing into the waters of Lake Pontchartrain in four days or less.

“WHAT IF WHAT THEY SAID is true?” Jessica asked as the three of them pedaled north out of the town of Franklinton in the drizzling rain. “Where will we go if we can’t get to the cabin?”

“I don’t see any reason why policemen here would have made it up,” Casey said. “They probably don’t want us hanging around here either, and wouldn’t do anything to encourage us to stay. But still, it’s unbelievable that they would close a whole state to non-residents. Can they do that?”

“I don’t know,” Grant said. “I guess all bets are off as to what people may do and what may happen in a situation like this, mainly because it’s never happened before.” Grant was reeling with the impact of what the police officers had told them. If it were really true, he had made a terrible mistake to bring his two trusting companions all this way for nothing. If they couldn’t reach that cabin, he had no idea where they would go or what they would do. They were already low on food and he had no alternate plan for obtaining more. Turning back to New Orleans certainly wasn’t an option. Riding out of Franklinton in the continuing rain didn’t do anything to improve his optimism, but until they received this news, the cabin had seemed so close it had felt as if they were already there, and he could put up with any amount of discomfort knowing they would not have to spend another night out on the road. Now, everything had changed. They had come all this way only to learn they might not even be allowed to ride the rest of the way to their safe haven.

For now, it seemed as if the only logical choice was to continue on to the state line to see for themselves whether or not they would really be turned back. Maybe they could somehow convince the officers at the roadblock to let them in. It certainly didn’t seem fair that only those with Mississippi driver’s licenses could enter the state. His parents were landowners there, and the land and cabin were his to use any way he wanted while they were out of the country. But he also was painfully aware he didn’t have any way to prove the place even existed, other than by a verbal description and the address, which was on a remote rural lane in the middle of nowhere that few would likely be familiar with. It had never occurred to him that he would need to carry such proof. And of course, as his actual place of residence was the apartment in New Orleans, his driver’s license was issued in Louisiana, just like Casey’s, so neither license would do them any more good than the California license Jessica carried, if what they’d just learned was true.

At least they wouldn’t have far to go to find out. He couldn’t remember exactly how far it was to the state line, but a quick check of the map showed it was less than 12 miles. They could stop under a bridge or somewhere out of the rain and eat lunch, and still be there in two hours. As they pedaled he began to ponder a new idea. There was no way he was going to give up on reaching the cabin just because of some stupid roadblock that was probably illegal and unconstitutional, despite the circumstances. Grant figured they were blocking Highway 25 at the state line because it was a logical route from most of the populated areas to the south. Although there were some alternate smaller roads that also crossed the state line in the vicinity, he knew they would likely be watching those too, as there weren’t many of them and it would be easy enough to set up checkpoints at all of them if they were serious about keeping non-residents out. But what they likely would not be watching, he reasoned, was the river.