Dark Light

28

Arlis and Jeth were above on the flybridge. We’d pulled astern the forty-three-foot sportfisherman. Had been drifting along with it, presumably while they discussed the best way to put one of us aboard—dangerous in a running sea—or how to snatch the Viking’s anchor line and take her in tow. I considered going topside to find out, but decided Captain Bligh could make the decision on his own.

Tomlinson, Jeth, and I still hadn’t had a chance to talk about what we’d seen or found on the wreck and we couldn’t talk now because we didn’t want to share information with the two guys from Indian Harbor Marina. Tomlinson had found something interesting, though. Sizable, too, judging from the shape of his dive bag, which was on the stern deck. When I’d asked about it, he’d whispered, “Later. After we get rid of these two.”

For the last ten minutes, he’d been standing at the pilothouse console, using the VHF radio to keep Fort Myers Beach Coast Guard updated on our progress. Emergency distress calls are treated seriously; they require a follow-up interview before an incident report can be closed. Tomlinson had cleared his throat a couple of times before I realized he was trying to get my attention. His way of communicating privately while Augie and Oswald chattered away.

I turned. He was shirtless, the pirate’s bandanna tied around his head, wearing navy blue polyester dive pants called dive skins. He held up a warning index finger: Pay attention.

I listened as Tomlinson interrupted Augie. “Hey, guys, we’re about to take your boat in tow, so there’s some stuff we need to get straight first—for the Coast Guard. Which of you is the legal owner?”

Augie’s expression said: Why are you bothering me with this crap? “Our marina owns it, I guess. It’s corporate property. So that makes me captain. Is that what you’re asking?”

Tomlinson had found the trawler’s papers in a black leather portfolio that was zipped inside a waterproof case. He was leafing through documents that looked like service records, warranties, documentation, a registration. Owner Bill Gutek ran a tight ship.

Tomlinson said, “The same information I’ve got to give them about this boat”—he held the sheath of papers as an example—“they’re going to want for the Viking. And the Coast Guard has ways of checking if you give them wrong info. Are you sure the vessel’s registered in your marina’s name?”

No, it wasn’t registered to Indian Harbor Marina. I could see it on Augie’s face. But he said, “Yeah, I’m sure. That’s how it’s down. Under the exact same name as the marina, tell them that. We’re the owners.” Augie’s tone saying, Whatever. He didn’t care that we knew he was lying.

Tomlinson held his hands apart, palms up—sorry he was being such a pain in the butt. “The Coast Guard’s waiting for this stuff, man. If they go aboard the Viking, they’ll find the ship’s papers. They gotta match what you tell ’em. Or they’ll keep you at the Coast Guard station all night.”

Augie’s expression: Shit, now we’ve got to deal with this?

Tomlinson offered, “Or maybe…I’m just guessing here, but it’s okay to tell them if you’re not the owners. If your marina claimed it as salvage after the hurricane—the same way you got Javier’s boat?—then maybe you have a right to use it. It’s no big deal, man, if that’s how you got the Viking. But it’s gotta be the truth.”

Augie was confused. “Javier?”

“The colored guy who showed up with the gun,” Oswald said. He was chewing on his third sandwich. “That Pursuit with the twin Yamahas is his. Was his, I mean. Javier.”

“Oh yeah, the green boat with the radar,” Augie said slowly. “I’d forgotten that part of it. Moe loves that boat.”

“Oh yeah. Moe does…” Oswald left that hanging as he continued eating.

They were exchanging private information.

I said, “Is there something about Javier Castillo that we don’t know?”

I got a shrug, and an indifferent shake of the head, before Augie looked at Tomlinson and said, “Okay, sure. If the Coast Guard has to know, our marina…no, the salvage company we contracted claimed those boats, all perfectly legal, and they can talk to our lawyers if they have any more questions. We just want to get the boat home, wash her down, and get a drink.”

Tomlinson plays the role of the dope-addled hipster flawlessly because he is so often dope-addled. But he also possesses an extraordinary intellect. That big brain of his was working on something now. I sensed it. His low-key manner, playing the role: a burned-out flunky who was harmless, embarrassed because he had to ask questions.

“Good. I’ll let the Coast Guard know. Doc? Arlis might need help topside. A couple extra hands to get a vessel that size under control.”

Did he want me to keep Augie and Oswald busy while he spoke to the Coast Guard?

In reply to my look, I received the slightest of nods. Yes.

A ugie and Oswald followed me up the flybridge ladder in time to hear Arlis tell Jeth, “…that’s what I’m trying to get through that thick head of yours. If you’re ever on a boat that sinks—you can be five thousand miles offshore, it don’t matter—and if that boat happens to be carrying livestock, the first thing you do is find the pigs. You can drop a pig in the middle of an ocean at midnight and he’ll swim straight for shore. It’s a gift that a hog’s born with. Only the Good Lord knows why.”

When Jeth saw me, his expression read: Help.

“A horse? Don’t waste your time messin’ with a damn horse. Sheep and goats are almost as bad. Now, a dog, hell, a dog will chase seagulls, it don’t matter to him. A dog could swim forty miles of open water and just be touching the beach, but if a seagull flies over? A damn dog will head right back out to sea.

“That’s why you always should open their pens quick on a sinking ship. These days, a lot of sailors aren’t aware of that information. A cat, now there’s an animal that’s aware. A cat is smart. Know how you can tell? That’s right—a cat will already be in the water, waiting to climb on the first pig that swims along—”

Arlis knew that we were listening and couldn’t ignore us any longer. He paused and glared at me. “I suppose you come up here to tell me how to tie a knot. Or maybe you want to take the wheel and show me how to bow up to that vessel’s stern quarter gentle as a baby’s butt so one of you snotnoses can step aboard—”

I interrupted, “Nope, you’ve got the helm, Arlis. But you don’t own that boat.” I pushed my chin toward the nearby sportfisherman. “This guy says he’s captain of the Viking, and he’s the one best qualified to say how we take her in tow. Augie’s going to stay up here and tell you how he wants it done.” I put my hand on Augie’s shoulder and pushed him a step closer to Arlis. “Go ahead. Tell Arlis what to do next.”

I looked at Jeth—Let’s go—and followed him down the ladder. As we left, I lingered long enough to hear Arlis saying, “Hey, I recognize you now. You’re that spawn from Indian Harbor Marina. ’Member me? The night watchman you called Old Dude? You’re supposed to tell me how to handle a boat?

“Why…you little penis-nosed twerp, you about knocked me overboard an hour ago. Just before I saved your ass—which I wouldn’t do again in a million years. Augie? I wouldn’t name a damn goat Augie, nor a horse neither, which is an even dumber animal, doesn’t come close to having the brains of a pig…”

T omlinson was talking on the VHF when Jeth and I came into the pilothouse. He motioned for us to hurry, and pointed to a paper at his elbow as he said, “Thanks very much, Marine Operator. Go ahead and put that call through.”

From the radio’s speaker came the sound of a ringing phone.

Tomlinson was cheerful. Clear-eyed, too—unusual for this late in the day. He said, “I just finished talking to the Coast Guard. I told them the Viking was adrift, no one aboard, and that she was going to kill herself ashore in less than an hour—if she didn’t hit a bridge or another boat first. Does that seem accurate?”

Through the trawler’s windows, I could see the sky bridge that connected the mainland to Estero Island and Fort Myers Beach, the horizon lifting and falling as we drifted. I nodded, and said, “Yes,” as Jeth said, “No doubt about it,” both of us aware of why he’d asked a question that had an obvious answer. Legalities were involved, and our responses might become part of the public record.

Jeth and I hold the same commercial Coast Guard licenses: 100-ton ocean operators, unlimited range. In a court of law—federal admiralty court, for instance—the opinion of three licensed professionals would have weight.

“Here.” Tomlinson tapped the printout he’d made at Sanibel Library while doing research on admiralty law. “I gave the Coast Guard the Viking’s documentation numbers and they found an emergency number for the company that owns her. Something called Boston Camera and Lexicon Software Analysis.”

As I moved to look, I heard a man’s voice say through the radio speaker, “This is John MacNeal. The Coast Guard says you have information about a boat my company owns. I’m president and CEO, so I have full authority…”

Jeth and I stood shoulder to shoulder listening but also reading:

…a ship abandoned in peril is not without proprietorship. Those on board, if forced to relinquish control of their vessel, do not give up title. However, if a crippled ship is at risk of wrecking or sinking, it may be rightfully assumed that the vessel’s value to its owner has been significantly diminished…

For this reason, Admiralty Law permits great latitude in the common law of salvage to encourage salvers to rescue a vessel in peril from otherwise total loss…

From the radio, I heard the voice of John MacNeal say, “If you have any connection whatsoever with those people at Indian Harbor Marina, this will be a very brief conversation, Mr. Tomlinson. My attorneys are dealing with them.”

I heard Tomlinson reply, “Our only association with them is adversarial. They took a boat that a friend of ours owns—stole it, as far as I’m concerned. Maybe you had a similar experience.”

There was a moment of static, then silence, before MacNeal responded. “Maybe. Whether it’s true or not, would you mind if my attorney listens in? We’d also like to record this for our records.”

Tomlinson said, “It won’t be the first time my conversations have been taped. You’re in the Boston area? I attended university there. I can give you the names of some local people who can vouch for my character. Call them, but make it quick. Your boat’s adrift, no one aboard, and pretty soon she’s going to beach herself or hit a bridge.”

Tomlinson gave the man names: Dr. Kenneth Kern, Massachusetts Laboratories; William Martin, naval historian; Dr. Musashi Rinmon Niigata…

Musashi? That was a surprise. Musashi was Tomlinson’s ex-wife and mother of their daughter, Nicola. They were back on speaking terms?

Tomlinson talked, as I continued to read:

…Admiralty Law understands that a salver assumes risks, and is entitled to recoup expenses plus fair profit, but only upon successful completion of the task.

However, just because a vessel has sunk does not transfer title of either the ship or its cargo to a salver. A salver who removes ship’s cargo or equipage when the vessel is no longer in peril is wrongfully relieving another of his property, unless that vessel or property can be proved abandoned. In the navigable waters of the United States, this period is 30 days.

A ship’s misfortune does not license immorality. Theft is theft, no matter the water’s depth. Therefore, a vessel’s owner may negotiate the cost of proposed salvage, or refuse a salver’s assistance. The owner has the right to decline all salvage benefits, unless the derelict vessel threatens the public safety and well being.

Tomlinson had underlined the last sentence.

I heard John MacNeal say, “You say there’s a chance our boat may drift into a bridge?”

Tomlinson replied, squinting at the GPS, “There’s a chance, yes. But I think it’s unlikely. I’m looking at a chart right now, and the way we’re setting it’s more likely she’ll go aground on the shoals off Fort Myers Beach. Damage shouldn’t be bad: props and driveshafts. Vandalism while she’s there, that’s your biggest concern.”

I wasn’t surprised by his honesty. Nor was I surprised when he added:

“Mr. MacNeal?”

“Yes?”

“I don’t want you to feel pressured. We’re going to try and save your boat no matter what. Rest easy, man. Whether or not you decide to negotiate a salvage fee with us”—Tomlinson looked at me and tapped his finger on another series of paragraphs that he’d underlined—“it doesn’t matter. We’ll still do what we can. I want you to know that before you make a decision—”

I began to read again, as MacNeal interrupted, “Hold on. I’ve got another one of our attorneys on the phone. This may take a few minutes.”

In keeping with Admiralty Law, a claim for a salvage award requires that three criteria can be demonstrated:

(1) Maritime peril from which the vessel or her cargo could not have been rescued without the salver’s intervention.

(2) A voluntary act by the salver. The salver must be under no official or legal duty to render the assistance.

(3) The salver must have success in saving, or in helping to save at least part of the property at risk, and be able to substantiate the worth of his assistance.

Tomlinson had put a check mark beside each paragraph. My guess was, he’d gone through the list one by one as he described the Viking’s situation to the Coast Guard. It was now part of the official record.

After a long silence, MacNeal returned, saying, “I just spoke with an old acquaintance of yours, Dr. Ken Kern. My company does some work with Mass Labs. Because we told him how serious the situation is, he had no choice but to tell us the truth. He told us that when we checked your record, we’d find seven arrests for possession of illegal substances.”

I was thinking, We can say good-bye to a salvage fee, as Tomlinson replied cheerfully, “That’s correct, seven. I’d like to think it shows how generous I was in those days; eager to share my goodies even with undercover cops. Trying to spread enlightenment among the Boston pigs.”

“You sound proud to be a convicted drug user.” MacNeal seemed to be throwing things out, then standing back, judging Tomlinson’s reaction.

“If you mean ‘convicted’ as in someone who has convictions, I am proud. Very proud.”

A careful sociability came into MacNeal’s voice. “Dr. Kern told me that one of those arrests was because you took the rap for a friend. A student who was a few weeks away from graduating. My guess is, that student’s now a highly respected Boston geneticist.”

Tomlinson looked at me, his innocent expression saying, What, me worry? “I don’t remember if that’s true, or who the friend was, but why not? Seven’s such a lucky number, man. How could I resist?”

There was another silent conferral before John MacNeal, president and CEO of Boston Camera and Lexicon Software Analysis, began to speak in sentence fragments that were sometimes quickly amended—he had attorneys whispering in his ear.

MacNeal told Tomlinson that he advised us not to attempt to save the company’s boat. It was too dangerous, his company would assume no liability. However, if we went against his advice and made an attempt anyway we had his permission to board the Viking. If we considered her derelict and a potential danger, we also had his permission to take reasonable measures to bring the boat to a safe port. Tomlinson could assume a role of custodial responsibility, pending negotiations for a salvage award.

Yes, paraphrasing his lawyers, that was clear.

MacNeal said, “I guess that means I’m washing my hands of it. You assume all responsibilities and liabilities, and the boat stays in your possession until we reach a fair settlement. Whatever you do, though, don’t let those people at Indian Harbor get their hands on it again. I’d rather let the boat sink.”

T omlinson signed off from the marine operator, and looked at Jeth, who was still processing what he’d heard. Jeth said slowly, “You mean the Viking’s not Augie’s anymore?”

“That’s right. It’s especially not Augie’s. Not his marina’s, either.”

“The guy doesn’t even know us and he’s letting us borrow it?”

Tomlinson said. “No. It’s more like we’ve adopted it—for now. MacNeal’s a nice guy, but he and his lawyer knew they didn’t have a choice. Risk a multimillion-dollar liability suit if the boat hits a bridge? It’s ours to keep until we settle. You and Javier suddenly have a very cool boat on your hands. And the timing couldn’t be better.” He held up an index finger: Wait here.

There was something he’d been wanting to show us. He went out the cabin door and returned with all three dive bags. Inside were objects that we’d gathered while surveying the wreck. The objects had a few long-dead barnacles on them, but not many—an indication they’d been buried in an anaerobic environment.

I’d found a rum bottle with raised lettering—RON BACARDI, HAVANA—plus the gun-sized glob. Jeth had recovered a flask-sized chunk of black-encrusted metal, and a couple of smaller chunks—silver?

As I held one of the pieces, I realized it was the first opportunity I’d had to tell them about the metallic rectangle I’d been trying to dig out of the sand. Could it have been gold? More likely, it was something golden looking in that silted light.

I hadn’t mentioned that I was knocked sideways by an unidentified animal, either—probably a shark, though it could have been a giant grouper. That feeling of shock, then dread, was something I would have to process on my own. My profession was beneath the water’s surface. I’d be going back into that murky water very soon.

I said nothing, as I inspected the encrusted chunk.

Jeth and I then watched as Tomlinson reached into his bag and pulled out a 1940ish dwarf-sized Coca-Cola bottle, then a broken phonograph record that was made of unexpectedly thick plastic.

“It’s an old 78,” he said. “I’d love to find out what’s on it.”

He saved the best for last: a wooden plaque. He placed it on the galley cabinet so we could inspect it.

“We’ll have to get that in salt water right away,” I told him, leaning close. “The stuff Jeth found, too.”

“Of course.”

The plaque was made of teak, most likely, swollen and black from years of being underwater, and covered with sand. It was the carved nameplate from a boat, a portion of it broken away long ago.

Touch a finger to the letters, and it was easier to read:

ARK LIGHT.

Jeth said, “Dark Light. It’s the wreck your friend said she’d pay us to salvage.”

Tomlinson replied, “Now we’ve got the boat to do it. Even in bad weather. Since Javier’s not here to do the honors, why don’t you go up and tell Augie the good news?”