John Casey - Spartina

Dick picked up the stern and walked it uphill of the bow. He said, “Come up here. Drag her up.”

They got the skiff to the gravel road, blowing hard. Dick felt exposed, kept on pulling across the gravel, down the beachside bank, rattling down the stones of the shoulder, then into the soft dry sand. He had to stop. He couldn’t hear anything but his own panting and the sound of the surf. Parker caught up, grabbed the stern line, pulled it over his shoulder with his good hand, and hauled. Dick grabbed the outboard and scuttled backward, his boot heels digging holes.

The surf got louder, and they got going faster on the downslope. Dick felt the harder sand. Parker put a hand on his back. Dick stopped, turned around. A wave ran a tongue to Parker’s feet. Dick looked up and down the beach. He could see the house lights from Green Hill, less than a half-mile east. If a jeep came from there without its lights, they wouldn’t see it.

Dick pulled the bow round toward the surf and got the oarlocks in their sockets. He said to Parker, “When we get her out a ways I’ll get in first. I’ll start rowing. You come in over the stern.”

When they got the skiff in knee-high, Dick saw a beam of light flash from offshore toward what Dick guessed was the Charlestown breachway. The light looked blue in the mist. If the light was just off the breachway, it was a mile and a half away. If it was the Coast Guard, say a small cutter, they could pick up the skiff on radar, be on her in three minutes.

Parker said, “Come on!” They waded in deeper. A wave rose up dark, chest-high. The skiff floated over their heads. She nearly pulled out of their hands as the wave spilled white around their waists.

Dick couldn’t see if there was another big one following. He went in over the gunwale and got the oar blades in the water. He got enough of a stroke in so the skiff went over the top of the next wave before it broke. He pulled again. Parker was holding on to the transom with one hand.

A flare went off over the pond, waggled slowly down.

Parker got his stomach over the transom. Dick took another pull at the oars and then grabbed the back of Parker’s collar.

Parker got his knee up over the side and spilled in, took a breath. “I lost my boot.”

Dick rowed a few more strokes in case a bigger wave rolled in.

Parker said, “What’s going on? Fucking Fourth of July.”

Dick was glad there was some chop now they were beyond the surf. The skiff was so small she fit completely in the trough, wouldn’t show up well on the radar screen, would look like sea clutter. So long as they didn’t look too close. He angled away from the cutter so the skiff would present her narrow stern.

His arms were a little tired, but it was calming to keep pulling on the oars.

Parker said, “Hadn’t we ought to crank her up?”

“Yeah. Get on up in the bow. You can’t get any wetter.”

The motor caught. Parker pulled out a piece of soggy chart and spread it on the rowing thwart. He cupped a hand around his flashlight and pointed to a smudged pencil line. “That’s where our boy ought to be.” Parker got the handbearing compass out of the bow locker. He switched the battery light on and wedged the handle into the rodholder.

Dick speeded up as much as he dared, angling the bow southeast across the waves from the south. The waves spread out some as they got offshore. Dick looked back. The beam of light was still shining toward the breachway.

Dick figured they were now a half-mile due south of Green Hill. He squinted at the compass dial lit up with a soft purple glow. He hefted the gas tank. Not too bad. Now just a five-mile sloppy run in the light chop.

Parker took his shirt off and wrung it out.

Dick leaned forward and said, “Your boot. I sure hope it didn’t have your name written in it.”

“Jimenez, J.” Parker said. “Good old Jorge Jimenez.”

As they got out farther the breeze was colder. Dick got Parker to steer while he wrung his clothes out, emptied his boots.

“What do you figure,” Parker said, “another half-hour, forty-five minutes?”

Dick took over again. Parker settled down on a life jacket, his back against the bow thwart, his arms wrapped tight around his chest, hands in his armpits. Dick pulled his watch cap down over his forehead and ears.

Parker pointed out another flash of a spotlight. Dick looked back. Seemed like just outside the gut into Little Salt Pond.

Parker leaned toward Dick over the rowing thwart and said, “Busy, busy, busy. It makes you wonder. Is it all just for us? We’re only little fish. Little, little fish. Maybe there was someone else going in. Maybe it was just bad luck we picked up that motorboat. Maybe the whole coast, you know, every little inlet was covered. I’d like to think it was bad luck. And that maybe that wasn’t a cop in the parking lot.”

Parker settled back and sang “Maybe, Baby” for a bit.

The breeze was steady, the waves regular. The skiff was doing okay. Dick put his watch near the compass light to see the time. If they missed Mamzelle they’d look mighty funny bobbing around out here once it got light. The Coast Guard might send up a helicopter. There was some mist but not a real fog.

Of course, if a real fog rolled in, they’d have a hell of a time picking up Mamzelle. Their problems weren’t over.

When they’d run almost an hour Dick told Parker to start looking. Dick figured they’d been making just under five knots.

“I suppose your boy knows enough to keep the running lights on.”

Parker said, “Oh yeah.”

Dick said, “What’s he do after he runs his half-hour out and his half-hour back in?”

“Back out a half-hour. In, out, in, out.”

“So we could be chasing him out?”

“For a bit. Then he’ll turn round.”

Dick slipped the piece of pipe over the throttle and stood up. His sweatshirt was still pretty wet. The breeze flattened it against him.

Parker spun back around on the bow thwart. “Know what I think? I think they served us up. They’ve never been easy to deal with, I’d try to make a little deal, they’d be real aloof. This time — this time it wasn’t quite so hard. Maybe I was wrong about being a little fish. Maybe they decided to serve up a little fish at Green Hill, you know, let the narcs get something for their arrest record. Big fish goes in somewhere else. Big fish has my money, what the fuck does he care. I’m no loss to him. I’m no harm to him.” Parker spit over the side. “Maybe being a little fish cut the wrong way this time.”

“Let’s just find your damn boat.”

Parker faced forward again. Dick heard him cackle. Parker looked over his shoulder. “You know what? Right now this little-bitty skiff with this little-bitty basket is worth more than Mamzelle. ”

Dick wondered if Parker understood the problem. Dick wondered if Parker might be crazy. Dick yelled up at him, “I’ll tell you a know-what. There may not be enough gas to get back to shore. Then your goddamn basket is worth zero.”

In the dark, with the skiff bobbing, Dick found it hard to tell the difference between sea and sky. There were some stars at the top of the sky, but just above the horizon it was pretty well clouded in. He also began to worry that, if he’d made one degree of compass error and Keith got off a degree or two the other way, they might have gone by each other. He started scanning all around, but he got a little sloppy about steering. He yelled to Parker to turn around and look astern.

Parker said, “Problem is, did we get served up by name or was it just a vague kind of thing? Hey, boys, somebody’s coming in somewhere in South County. It makes a difference, you know. Makes a difference in what we do next.”