Authors: Glen Robins
Once the truck was at speed again, Collin scrambled out from under his itchy hideaway and swiped at his face, hair, chest, and legs, trying to brush off the irritating straw. He checked his watch. It was 9:25. The map on his phone showed a hundred miles and two hours, fifteen minutes to go. His margin had evaporated. Looking through the slats of the trailer, hints of sunshine poked through the gathering clouds. The seas were agitated and bumpy. Northbound traffic was at a crawl.
Impatient and confined, Collin endured the tedium of watching watery scenery and time roll past, the scenery moving too slowly and the clock moving too quickly. Despite the wind blowing through the space, the air was moist and heavy. His clothes clung to his sweaty skin, along with the inescapable stench of horses. At 11:41, the truck slowed markedly and started an unhurried, arcing right turn onto a dusty road, lined with trees and bushes. Collin’s phone showed that they were on Stock Island, five miles from the marina. As they moved farther away from the highway, Collin panicked. He knew from his map that this road was taking him the wrong way. He had to bail out. It took some effort to open the gate from the inside, but he tugged at the sliding bolt until it cleared, and the gate swung open. Tall grass lined the dirt road. Now or never. As the truck ambled along, Collin lowered his bags onto the dirt one by one, then jumped out toward the grass on the passenger’s side and rolled. In one fluid motion, he was back on his feet, scooping up his bags, and retreating into the tall grass.
As Collin lay low in the grass watching, the truck stopped, and the cowboy appeared around the back, exclaiming aloud, “What the hell?” He checked the gate, the latch, the contents. Collin took the opportunity, while the cowboy inspected the inside of the trailer, to sprint into the trees to better conceal himself, hoping the man would give up and move along. The cowboy reemerged and scanned the area guardedly. Time was ticking, and Collin was growing ever more apprehensive as noon approached.
The cowboy secured the sliding bolt on the rear gate and moseyed back to the truck, still shaking his head, then drove off slowly. Collin sprinted for the main road and headed into town. His clothes were filthy, stained with dirt and grass; pieces of straw clung to them and stuck out of his hair. With only ten minutes to go, Collin couldn’t stop. The warm air exacerbated things, causing sweat to pour down his face and body, soaking his shirt anew. But he kept running along a path that paralleled the highway. He crossed a small inlet with seven minutes left and could see that he was approaching the tiny airport on the edge of town. That meant taxis, so he veered across the highway and found one about to enter the roadway, headed toward town. Self-conscious about his appearance and odor, Collin apologized as he jumped in the front seat. “I need to get to the marina as quickly as possible,” he said.
“Which marina, sir?” asked the short, Hispanic driver.
“The main one, I guess.”
“OK, I take you to Bright Marina.”
The taxi sped away and at two minutes before noon, he was dropped off in front of a sign that read, “The Schooner Western Union, Key West Flagship.” Collin tipped the driver generously and jumped out, already searching for the First Mate.
Rojas was nowhere to be seen among hordes of moving people. Collin poked his head into the adjacent store. No Rojas.
The waterfront area was brimming with activity. Swarms of people moved with a foreboding urgency. Many were dragging suitcases or coolers. Some yelled into cell phones, tugged on children’s arms, or shuttled armloads of supplies.
He scanned the docks, the sidewalks, the parking lot, straining for any sign of Rojas—to the left, to the right, straight in front. Looking over the half-vacated marina, all he could see were the towering masts and hulking yachts that had yet to depart and more people moving to and fro.
From the water, a cacophony of lively sounds filled the air. Crews worked feverishly, preparing to get underway, barking out orders and questions to one another. Engines roared to life. Lines and clips clanged against metallic masts as the wind blew harder. He began to jog toward the docks, scanning in all directions. That’s when he saw them. Two men who looked out of place, talking to a small cluster of people, displaying a printed photograph. One was a tall, older, black guy. The other looked like a moving tree trunk, thick with muscle, blond curls atop his head. Both men wore dress pants and button up shirts. They weren’t tourists, and they weren’t boat owners.
Collin’s insides went cold. A shiver ran up his spine, causing his head to do a quick shake. They had to be cops, searching for him.
How’d they know?
He spun around, keeping his face turned toward the water, searching more frenetically for Rojas’s familiar mop of hair—long, dark, and tangled. Checking over his shoulder to keep an eye on the detectives, he moved forcefully through the crowds, trying to get his bearings and figure out where Rojas would be. His phone began to buzz in his pocket. “Where are you, man?” Captain Sewell’s voice was calm, the words slipping lazily through the air.
“I’m at the marina, looking for Rojas. Where is he?”
“He’s there, looking for you.”
“No, he’s not. He’s nowhere to be found. Did he leave already?”
“No, he’s sitting on a bench next to the gas pump.”
“Gas pump? Where?”
“It’s by the main office.”
“I only see a store. Is there an office in there?”
The Captain paused, sucking in a breath. “Which marina are you at?”
“The one that has the sign for the Western Union Schooner.”
“Wrong marina. He’s down at the next one—Conch Harbor.”
“I’ll go there now. Tell him to wait.”
When Collin turned to find the guys with the photo, they were gone. Not knowing where they were scared him more than knowing they were close. He couldn’t wait. He had to move. He opened up the map on his phone, located Conch Harbor Marina, and punched the icon to request walking directions. Half a mile.
His grimy clothes, along with the straw stuck to him, were drawing unwanted attention. Young people stared and pointed at him. Older folks looked on with either pity or disdain. Keeping his head down, he followed the directions on the phone map. His pace was brisk, matching those around him. As he moved through the crowd, Collin heard someone call his name. Instinctively, he turned his head toward the sound. Wrong thing to do, he realized. The two men were now only yards away and closing. Collin broke into a full sprint, crying out, “Move” and “Coming through,” as he ran, knocking into people and pushing others out of his way. His bags slowed him down, but he was still able to outpace his pursuers.
As he approached Conch Harbor Marina, he called at full volume: “Rojas, get to the boat.”
Upon hearing his name, Rojas popped up and looked toward the sound. Collin was barreling full speed in his direction, dodging around groups of people as he ran. Behind him two guys were in full chase. Rojas dashed toward the boat. Collin could see his ropey tangles bobbing up and down amidst the crush of people. They disappeared as Rojas headed down the ramp toward the docks. Twenty yards down the dock, Rojas jumped into a rubber dinghy and started up the engine as Collin bounded down the ramp. Collin was on the composite deck and making his turn when the two pursuers hit the ramp. Collin slipped as he tried to negotiate the hard left but caught himself before he slid into the water. “Go, go,” he yelled, pointing toward the end of the dock, straight in front of him as he got back to his feet, legs churning like a running back.
Rojas jammed the dinghy’s motor in reverse. Once he cleared the end of the slip, he threw the throttle forward and swung the boat in the direction of Collin’s flight, quickly drawing alongside him, matching his speed. At the end of the dock, Rojas eased off the throttle so the dinghy was gliding just off to Collin’s right and slightly ahead of him, eight feet from the end of the dock. Without pause or hesitation, Collin leaped at an angle and landed on the hard floor of the rubber boat. His momentum carried him forward toward the opposite side, almost pitching him into the water. Rojas acted quickly and grabbed the shoulder strap of Collin’s computer bag and leaned hard toward the center of the boat, just managing to keep Collin inside and the boat from capsizing. Collin fell in a heap, and Rojas gunned the little engine, steering into the crowded waterway, weaving through traffic, heading toward open water.
Gulf of Mexico, West of Key West, FL
June 6
“Man, you look and smell like—” Rojas yelled over the high pitched whaling of the outboard motor racing full-throttle through rough water.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Collin interrupted. “It’s a long story. I’ll tell you all when we get to the boat.” Collin scanned the water behind them. There were dozens of boats of all sizes plowing lines in the water, the harbor resembling a freeway at rush hour.
Rojas again yelled over the din. “Looks like everyone wants to get out of here.”
“What do you know about the storm?”
“Supposed to hit the Bahamas pretty soon, I think. Then South Florida a couple of hours later. They think it will die out when it hits land.”
“Where is everyone going?”
“Probably as far north and west as they can.”
“What’s Sewell’s plan?”
“Same thing. Get far away, to the west.”
“Think we can outrun these guys?”
“Don’t worry, man. No sailboat faster than the
Admiral
.”
“It’s not the sailboats I’m worried about.”
* * * *
Conch Harbor Marina, Key West, Florida
June 6
Crabtree and McCoy watched Collin hit the deck as he turned, so they slowed at the bottom of the grated metal ramp to take the ninety degree turn more cautiously. Nonetheless, they didn’t stand a chance of catching the speedy Collin. They watched from forty feet away as Collin leapt and landed in the moving dinghy. As they reached the end of the dock, Crabtree stopped, hunched over, and grabbed his knees. Between breaths he exclaimed, “Never . . . seen . . . anything . . . like . . . that.”
McCoy, the former football player, remained standing, hands on his hips, kicking at the dock in exasperation. “Not only fast but highly motivated. Wish I had it on video. It’d go viral.” He wasn’t as winded as his partner, but he was equally as frustrated.
Crabtree remained bent over for a beat or two then reared up and said, “Grab that boat. We can still get him.” He was pointing at another dinghy, larger than the one Collin jumped onto, tied up in an empty slip twenty feet away.
McCoy dashed toward the waiting rubber boat. This one had a built-in console with a seat and a steering wheel. A much fancier model than the target vessel. As he untied the ropes, his more experienced partner arrived, as did the owner, yelling obscenities and demanding them off his dinghy. The man was large, tanned, and muscular. He meant business. Crabtree flashed his badge and said, “FBI. We need your boat. We’ll return it when we’re done.” The man threw his hands in the air and spewed more profanities as the agents tore off in hot pursuit.
* * * *
Gulf of Mexico, off the coast of Key West, Florida
June 6
“Where’s the
Admiral
?” shouted Collin. Each swell they plowed through sent a shower of sea spray from the leading edge of the bow. Collin’s sore ribs throbbed with each jarring thump. Wisely, Rojas had brought a large garbage bag to keep Collin’s belongings dry. Collin had cinched it tightly, then wrapped it up, and tied it down under the aluminum bench. He knelt in the front section, holding the safety rope attached to the top of the tubular rubber sides, to keep the boat more stable. Although the water was warm, the slashing wind chilled his wet skin. Before long, Collin was soaked and shivering.
The boat traffic thinned out as they cleared the protected harbors of Key West and headed into the open waters of the Gulf of Mexico. Dozens of cabin cruiser yachts and fishing boats of all sizes, shapes, and models—some old, discolored, and barely seaworthy; others large and luxurious enough to call home—spread out in a fan shape, heading north by northwest. Amongst the motor yachts, scores of sail boats, just as varied in their dimensions and ages, unfurled only a portion of their sails to harness enough wind to drive them forward without capsizing. Many pitched and swayed violently, trying to adjust to the gusts and swells. Others plunged through the waves gracefully, gently rolling as the sails filled with wind and propelled them as if in flight.
Rojas dug a handheld device out of his pocket. It was bright yellow and made of what appeared to be a rugged, buoyant material. He checked it and adjusted their course. Using his outstretched hand, he pointed in the direction they were going. “It’s about four miles ahead,” he shouted.
“Why so far away?”
“Captain wanted to get ahead of everyone.”
“Good idea.” Collin scanned in all directions. That’s when he noticed it. On the horizon behind them, approaching quickly. He pointed to the boat and shouted, “The two dudes chasing me. They’re following us”
“Maybe,” yelled Rojas. “Watch them.”
The little dinghy continued to bounce as it bored through the one- and two-foot swells and troughs. It seemed like an eternity to Collin. He just wanted to get back on the
Admiral Risty
and change into dry clothes. Rojas was calm and focused. Collin was nervous and shivering with cold. The sky and the sea grew dark, angry, and threatening.
Every few swells, Collin ventured a glance behind them, only to find the pursuing boat a little closer. Unpleasant thoughts raced through his mind.
“Up ahead. That’s them,” called Rojas, pointing.
The
Admiral Risty
bobbed in the growing surf several hundred yards ahead. The pursuing dingy had veered off course. Collin strained his eyes to make sure. Then he saw a little boat similar to theirs with two passengers just to the south of their position, about a mile away, heading toward a large yacht.
When they got close to the
Admiral Risty
, Captain Sewell stood on the stern, urgently waving them in. “Toss me the line,” he called. Collin gave it a heave and the coiled rope floated a few yards in the air, then caught the wind and landed short, splashing in the water. Collin reeled it in, hand over hand, recoiling it on the floor of the dinghy. His second attempt wasn’t much better. His third attempt landed the end of the rope right at the Captain’s feet. Jaime grabbed the rope and began to pull the dinghy closer, while picking his way along the railing toward the bow. Rojas tossed a rope from the stern, and soon the dinghy was sidelong the
Admiral Risty
, ramming into the thick, rubber bumpers dangling from the gunwale. Collin handed the garbage bag full of his worldly possessions to Tog as he held the railing. The two boats rose and fell with each swell, water washing over the deck of the
Admiral
and over the sides of the dinghy, partially filling it with seawater.
After Collin and Rojas boarded the
Admiral Risty
safely, the other men worked quickly to pull up one side of the dinghy to drain the water. Two of them scrambled to secure a rubberized canvas cover over the small boat, one that fastened onto the bow and stretched to the stern with a heavy gauge zipper along the side rail. With the cover in place, the two men tied the dinghy’s bow rope to a cleat on the
Admiral
’s stern and lowered the dinghy back in the water. They gave the Captain the “Aye, aye, sir,” as they finished. Every man scurried to his post, and, at the Captain’s orders, they worked the lines and riggings, sending sails up and booms a swinging. In no time, the
Admiral Risty
was slicing through the waves with speed and purpose, the experienced crew making it look easy.
A mile to the south, the pursuing agents realized their mistake as soon as they caught up to the slower vessel. Neither of the two men onboard was Collin Cook. Crabtree pointed northward to the men tying off a similar, rubber boat to the back of their sailboat. McCoy punched the throttle and raced toward it. Once the sails were aloft and the sailboat began to move, Crabtree shot a look of panic at his partner, who had to deftly work the throttle. The swells had grown. At full speed, the little dinghy became airborne at the tops of each wave. If the propeller were to breach the water’s surface with the accelerator engaged, the lack of resistance could strip the gears and seize up the motor. Knowing this, McCoy backed off the throttle as they knifed through the top of each swell, causing them to land with a jolt in the trough, before he gunned it again up the next swell.
The two agents, bracing for each impact, worked their way through the waves, steadily closing on the large sailboat.
Shuddering with cold, Collin was directed by the Captain to go into the cabin and change his clothes. He was dripping wet. The wind and the water had chilled him to the bone. As he stood there shivering, momentarily trying to engage his brain, he heard commotion above. The crew was yelling and clamoring on the deck. There was a new urgency. Collin climbed the steps and held the railing, following the crew’s eyes to the dinghy racing toward them. The Captain ordered another sail to be hoisted, despite the strong winds, to help them outrun the oncoming vessel. Men ran to the forward mast and worked the lines. In no time, the
Admiral Risty
gained speed, and the dinghy’s progress toward them stopped. Both boats were full speed ahead through the turbulent seas, neither gaining any ground on the other.
The chase continued for over an hour, the FBI agents in the dinghy tailing the
Admiral Risty
, two hundred yards aft. Captain Sewell dared not hoist another sail with the wind gusting over sixty miles per hour. He and the crew had their hands full controlling the boat as it was. Luckily, the winds were blowing predominately from their back.
Captain Sewell monitored radio communications on the Coast Guard channel. He knew the FBI agents in the dinghy had called for reinforcements but that those reinforcements were busy with the evacuation of South Florida. He also knew Hurricane Abigail, currently a Category Two with sustained winds of one hundred miles per hour, had battered The Bahamas and would soon hit the Florida Keys. It was traveling quickly, averaging fifteen miles per hour across the water. He understood his advantage and the other boat’s weakness. At some point, the dinghy would run out of fuel. The experienced Captain just hoped that happened before a Coast Guard cutter intercepted them.
Forty minutes later, his wishes came true. The dinghy began slowing, then finally stopped, bobbing and tossing in the swells that had increased to three feet. The Captain listened as the pilot of the dinghy radioed a distress call. A minute later, the response the Captain did not want to hear came through. The Navy was sending help. Using the agents’ cell phones as a beacon, they had locked onto their coordinates and were full speed en route. Estimated time of arrival: nineteen minutes.
The Captain called to his men as he continued to navigate through the worsening conditions. Rain had started coming down harder and harder. The crew gathered around their Captain, intent on hearing every word. He shouted over the noise from the wind and rain, directing his comments at Collin, stabbing the air with his long index finger for emphasis.
“Look, the Navy is coming—nineteen minutes away—to pick up those two guys. They’ll run us down to capture you. We have little time and few options. You can stay here and hide again. Or, you can take the dinghy and go to one of the tiny islands until the storm passes. I doubt they would find you.”
“Do you think it will work again, hiding in the compartment?” Collin shouted back.
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
Collin could see doubt in the Captain’s expression. Using the same trick on the same boat twice was risky. “What are my chances in the dinghy?”
“The storm is coming in hard. Visibility is very bad. They’ll never see you if you go now. Get far away from us. But this storm—it is very dangerous.”
“I’m OK with that. It’s safer for everyone if I’m gone. Where do I go?” shouted Collin.
“I know a place ten or fifteen miles from here. You can use GPS to find it, but it will take an hour or more in these conditions. Very dangerous.”
“Doesn’t matter,” said Collin. “Beats the alternative.”
The Captain ordered the crew to prepare the dinghy and load it with fuel. He instructed Collin to retrieve a special, black bag from a hold under one of the bunks and load his things in it. He advised him to throw in as much food and as many water bottles as room in the bag would allow.
When Collin returned with the bag stuffed full, he found the Captain scanning the horizon through binoculars, searching for approaching vessels. The Captain showed him how to seal the bag, which was made of a thick, rubbery plastic, to make it water tight. Tough and buoyant, the Captain explained, this bag would protect his gear and food from the water.
The Captain motioned for Jaime and Rojas to pull the dinghy broadside and secure the bag to the front bench of the little boat, along with a red, plastic, five gallon gas can.
Pulling Collin by the shoulder as the wind and waves battered the
Admiral
, Rojas handed him the small, yellow, handheld device he had used earlier. The Captain explained to Collin how to use the GPS device to navigate. Collin figured it wouldn’t be much different than the one he used for hiking. There were a number of way points listed in a table called “Favorites,” with numbers and symbols indicating longitude and latitude, as well as a short nickname for each. Number nine on the list was labeled “spit 3.” Collin was instructed to go there.