Twelve Mile Limit

4

Florida has the population of a fair-sized nation, and the disappearance of three people grabbed some quick headlines. But, very soon, it was business as usual on what Tomlinson once described as the “Disney Peninsula-a multitonomous fantasy that features every brilliance of the racial rainbow, along with every human fakery and illusion.”

The media wave peaked with interest momentarily but then flooded away just as fast, once again indifferent to the fact that three people had lived and died.

Physically and metaphorically, Janet and her companions had been swept out of sight, and the news gatherers went on to more current matters: On Thanksgiving Day in Miami’s Liberty City, members of a ghetto gang called the Spliffs stopped four Canadians in a rental car and shot them to death because the Canadians had made the outrageous mistake of taking the wrong exit off Interstate 95, and then onto the gang’s neighborhood street.

In the gorgeous country town of Arcadia, a Brahma bull busted out of its loading ramp and gored three rodeo fans as they walked to their cars, but the fans refused the entreaties of clamoring personal injury attorneys to sue. As one fan told a reporter from the St. Petersburg Times, “Rodeo’n’s risky business whether you’re in the ring or in the stands. That’s the way we like it.”

And on the main sawgrass plain of the Everglades, immigration police arrested forty-seven illegal aliens of various nationalities who’d been jettisoned off the uninhabited Ten Thousand Islands and left to wade ashore by flesh merchants who’d smuggled them into U.S. waters from Colombia. The illegals were dehydrated, cut all to hell by the coral rock that lies at the base of the sawgrass, and starving. In the November heat, many days without good water, it became a death march of sorts. Three of the weakest fell and were left to the vultures. Another died shortly after being hospitalized. One of the survivors, though, was quoted as saying, “Why did I risk my life to come to America? Because here I can live as a person, as an individual with dignity, not as a beast of burden. I am a woman, not a thing!”

It was the sort of story that gave one hope.

The effects of the Seminole Wind tragedy did not fade nearly so quickly on the islands of Sanibel and Captiva nor on the islands and water places that comprise a back bay community that is separate from the rest of Florida’s Gulf Coast communities. Talk of the three missing divers continued to be the main topic of conversation on Cedar Key, Siesta Key, and Venice Beach, on Don Pedro, Palm Island, and Gasparilla, on Cabbage Key, Useppa, and Estero Island, on Vanderbilt Beach, Bonita Beach, and among the boating community of Naples, too.

The refrain was familiar: How was it possible that three adults in wet suits and inflated vests were not found? It just didn’t make sense.

At Dinkin’s Bay Marina and Jensen’s Marina, the pain was palpable, so much so that our communal Thanksgiving dinner was more like a wake. Which is why, two weeks later at Dinkin’s Bay Marina’s traditional Friday party-the Pig Roast and Beer Cotillion, as it is called-Dieter Rasmussen, the German psychopharmacologist, herded us over to the big sea grape tree near the boat ramp and gave us an unrehearsed lecture on what might have been titled, “Dah Five Stages of Mourning When Vee Haf Lost a Loved Vun, Yah!”

Dieter is a wealthy German who loves the lazy, kicked-back lifestyle of Dinkin’s Bay, but he is also an internationally respected physician who’s an expert on human behavior and the chemistry of the brain. There were about fifteen of us, beers in hand, platters of steamed shrimp and fried conch on the picnic tables nearby, and at the center of our little group was Jeth. Jeth with the Cherokee black hair and Beverly Hillbillies accent, wearing filthy khaki fishing shorts and shirt, a plastic cup in his hand that we all knew was filled with vodka plus a little fresh grapefruit juice from the grapefruit tree behind the shell shop. Jeth, who’d once had a mild stutter, but who had not stuttered once since Janet’s disappearance. Not that he’d said much at all after our little fleet returned from Marco Island. He was sleeping too late, not bathing, and drinking way, way too much. Lots of red flags.

Standing while the rest of us sat, Dieter spoke in a guttural, booming Teutonic accent and used sweeping arm gestures. He outlined the list-numbness, yearning, and disbelief, then disorganization and denial, before anger kicked in. Then came the final stage, which was the beginning of the healing process.

Jeth, I was not surprised to realize, was displaying all the symptomatic stages except for the last.

He was not healing, nor did he seem to have much interest in allowing himself to heal. Janet was dead because he’d insisted that they date other people. She’d been with Michael Sanford on that Friday dive trip because Jeth had refused Janet’s pleas that the two of them go away for the weekend and attempt to sort out their problems.

That was the way he saw it, anyway, and why he was clearly punishing himself.

I listened to Dieter say, “Emotional numbness, if unresolved, can impair a person’s ability to be deeply intimate or to interact with people and situations in a spontaneous manner. In other words, my friends, you will not haf fun anymore! In fact, you will be the pain in my ass, and we have enough pains in my ass on this island!”

We all laughed. Everyone except Jeth, who yawned, took a gulp of his vodka, and watched a pelican collapse its wings in mid-flight and crash like a crate into the bay.

As Dieter talked about the second and third stages of mourning-deep yearning, disbelief, and then denial-I noticed a green Jeep Cherokee pull into the shell parking lot and a lean, leggy redhead get out. It was Amelia Gardner. I recognized her from photos I’d seen in the newspaper and from television, too. For the brief period in which the disappearances got a lot of press, she, as the lone survivor, was the center of attention-Gardner and the families of the three people who’d vanished. As a group, they’d held press conferences and commented jointly on what they believe happened to the pleasure boat Seminole Wind and had issued occasional opinions on the job the Coast Guard had done.

Their comments about the Coast Guard’s efforts were always positive, and deservedly so, yet their group hadn’t wanted the search to end when Dalton Dorsey and his superiors pulled the plug. I didn’t blame the families. Even if the three were dead-and there seemed no other possibility-their loved ones wanted the remains found because they desperately wanted and deserved closure.

As Dalton told me on the phone, “I don’t blame them one tiny little bit. But we’re in the business of saving lives, not recovering bodies. People don’t realize, you get out there in international waters, beyond the twelve-mile limit, there’s only so much help you can expect.”

Janet’s representative family consisted of a younger sister, Claudia Kohlerberg, who was a stockier, more athletic version of Janet. She’d traveled down from an Ohio farm town called Bryan, returned home two days after the search was ended, and now was back again to see to Janet’s personal effects. She’d been staying on the little blue houseboat at Jensen’s Marina: a nice woman with a strong smile and a jock-like informality, but who clearly showed the pain of her sister’s disappearance. There was a familial similarity both in appearance and depth of sensitivity, but Claudia did not give the impression of shyness, as Janet had. I had the feeling that, under happier circumstances, Claudia would have been the rowdy partier and the sisterly confidant of a long list of guy friends.

Claudia seemed to like Dinkin’s Bay, and we all liked her.

I wasn’t the only who recognized Amelia Gardner. Tomlinson and Ransom-who’d apparently hammered out a separate peace during their six days at sea-stood and walked toward the parking lot to intercept her. Dieter was saying, “When we lose someone we love, there is a deep yearning for what was lost followed by a desperate search for a way to replace that person.

“This can be a very dangerous time! We blame ourselves. We say, ‘If only I’d done something different. ’ We have many regrets. Then we do a very human but stupid thing. We rush into bad rebound relationships. We try to replace the person with alcohol or drugs. During this period, we feel we have a hole inside ourselves that cannot be filled, a thirst that cannot be quenched.”

I watched Tomlinson and Ransom introduce themselves to Amelia Gardner. Watched her nod as Ransom gestured to our little group, then as she leaned into her car and retrieved a small backpack, then walked with an easy-hipped grace across the white shell.

She was a wearing a red tank top, khaki shorts with starched pleats, and thin sandals. A woman as tall as Ransom, but flat-chested, with pale Irish skin, freckles, and curly red hair clipped boyishly short. The bright red of her tank top made her hair the color of old copper. Take one look at her and you assumed certain things from her appearance, the muscle tone, and the way she carried herself: She probably had green eyes, didn’t tan, was a high school athlete, maybe competed in college, too. Good at endurance sports, almost anything outdoors, and had inherited a family passion for St. Patrick’s Day through her father, whom she probably adored. Not unusual among women athletes.

There was something else I knew about her, even though we’d never met: Amelia Gardner was a survivor. On a black and windy night, out of four desperate people, she was the only one who’d made it to the light tower.

Dieter finished by talking about “free-floating” anger that seeks physical relief and how, if we dealt honestly with our emotions and recognized them for what they were-symptoms of loss-it would enable us to pull wisdom and meaning from pain. “It will deepen and strengthen our relationship with ourselves and increase our resilience in living. That is Janet’s gift to us, but we must choose to accept her gift.”

Jeth, at least, seemed to hear that. I saw him sit a little straighter, listening.

Then it was Tomlinson’s turn, just as we planned. He stood and tugged at his ratty, gold paisley surfer’s shorts, his sun-bleached hair hanging long, and stood scratching at his goatee until he had everyone’s attention. Then he held up his hands for quiet and said, “The party’s gonna be a little different tonight. The rules are the same-you put ten bucks in the bucket, then eat and drink all you want. But one thing everyone needs to know. This party’s going to be in Janet’s honor. We are going to celebrate the life of our sister, that good, good woman, and it is going to be one hell of a party!”

A couple of people hooted and there was gradual applause, then louder applause.

Tomlinson raised his voice a little. “I already talked to Claudia about it. It’s time to stop feeling bad about Janet being gone and start talking about what a great life she had. About what she contributed to the lives of us all. Man, I miss her! Damn right I do! Janet Mueller was a spiritual horse. There was no load so heavy that it took the light out of her eyes. She had energy, my children, a great karma, and here’s what I can tell you: Energy can’t be destroyed. That’s a fact of physics. Janet may have taken a different form, but her energy’s still here.”

I’d heard Tomlinson make this point before. In fact, after trailering my skiff when we’d returned to Marco Island, I’d stopped at the island’s tiny cemetery where, a while back, he’d once spoken very similar words at the funeral of a young girl. The child’s second funeral. Exhausted from my days at sea, I’d sat for nearly an hour alone, next to the girl’s headstone, before starting the long trip back to Sanibel.

Now Tomlinson said, “Janet’s still with us and loving us and looking over us. Which is why we are gonna party our asses off tonight. Just to get things warmed up, I here and now challenge Doc’s sister, Ransom Gatrells, to a limbo contest. And, ladies? I’ll be wearing a brand new sarong, a hand-painted Cartier from New Orleans, so get your seats early. Zamboni and the Hat Trick Twins are back in fighting shape and ready to rumble.”

My friend continued, “I want to send out a special invitation to all the waitresses at Mucky Duck, Green Flash, Chadwick’s, and Sanibel Grill. As always, there will be a topless division. For the last seven years, that very popular division has been won by the Davis sisters from Mason City, Iowa, Andrea and Kristin, and God bless their family genetics. But one of the sisters has gotten married, so Andrea is at half strength. Ladies, the time to strike is now.”

I noticed Jeth drop his head, shaking it, maybe laughing, maybe fighting back tears, I couldn’t tell. Saw Amelia Gardner smile as everyone hooted and applauded. I also saw Gardner turn suddenly, scanning the little crowd until her eyes found me. Then she stopped, as if she recognized me, before returning her attention to Tomlinson, who was using his hands to call for silence.

“One last thing,” he said. “Day after tomorrow, Sunday morning, here at the marina, we’re going to hold a service for Janet. I talked to Claudia about this, too. It’s time to say good-bye, my children. It’s time for some closure. We can shed all the tears we want on Sunday. We can bawl like babies, but tonight, damn it, tonight we are going to kick a little cosmic ass. Tonight we’re gonna live the hell out of every single, drunken moment, and love each other like the family we are!”

When he said that, I found my eyes turning involuntarily to my left where JoAnn and lanky Rhonda sat side by side on a picnic table. I saw, to our mutual amusement, that their eyes had swung automatically toward me. I nodded at Rhonda’s smile but pretended not to see JoAnn’s bawdy wink.

I did notice that Gardner was moving in my direction, but gradually, as if she didn’t want to divert attention from Tomlinson.

As Tomlinson said, “There’s a very powerful woman I need to introduce right now,” Gardner stopped walking, giving me a brief, pointed look that maybe meant something, maybe didn’t. Then she waited as he continued, “We didn’t expect her, but the timing couldn’t be better. We all know the story. Four people were set adrift, and only one of them made it to the light tower. If you think we’ve been through hell, imagine what she went through. That woman’s here right now. She came here because she wants to talk to the people who care about Janet and answer our questions.

“Out in the parking lot, she told Ransom and me that she’s made it a point to go to all of the families, one by one, and try to clear up any misunderstandings. We’re Janet’s family, and I think we all know what the lady means. That’s why I described her as a powerful woman. I watched her get out of her car in the parking lot a few minutes ago, and she had an aura so bright it damn near hurt my eyes. She’s got a strong and caring heart, so let’s welcome Amelia Gardner to Dinkin’s Bay.”

He nodded to Gardner, who was smiling, but not giving it much, keeping herself within herself, as people applauded politely. “Amelia, you mind if we adjourn to the main docks? We’ll do it any way you want it, but I suggest you grab a beer, get some food, relax, and make yourself at home. Then you can talk to us as a group, if that suits you. Afterward, you’re welcome to stick around and drink heavily with the rest of us. But I warn you-you may never be the same woman after you see the limbo contest.”

Gardner’s laughter had a jazz singer’s rasp, and her voice was a foggy alto that did not mesh, at first, with her Boston accent. She was articulate and polite, and seemed slightly nervous speaking to a group of strangers, which was understandable. “The only favor I ask,” she said, “is that you don’t hold anything back. I want to answer all your questions. I want to set the record straight as best I can. I don’t care what rumor you’ve heard, no matter how outrageous, I want to address it.

“There’s a thing called ‘survivor’s guilt,’ and I know I’ve got a bad case of it. This is my way of trying to help all of us. So, you bet, I’d love a beer. I’ll meet you over on the docks.”

A couple minutes later, as I walked alone across the shell parking lot, toward the mangrove path that leads to my house, I was surprised when Gardner came up behind me and said, “You’re not leaving, are you?” Then, when I stopped and turned to face her, she added, “You’re Ford, right? Dr. Marion Ford?” Her tone was businesslike, formal, and confident.

I said, “That’s right. How’d you know?”

“Dalton Dorsey described you. From Coast Guard St. Petersburg? I’d like to speak with you privately, Dr. Ford, after I’ve talked to the group. Commander Dalton said you’d be the perfect person.”

“The perfect person for what?”

“I want someone to help me find out why that boat sank. Every single little detail, so I can make it public.” She dropped the formality then, the tone of her voice communicating pain, as she added, “The rumors are killing me, Dr. Ford. I don’t know what makes people so mean that they’re saying these kind of things, but none of it’s true. I didn’t know the other three people very well, but those poor souls aren’t even here to defend themselves, which is absolutely infuriating.”

“That’s understandable,” I said. “Some of the stuff floating around is pretty silly.”

“I’m an attorney. I know that the best way to fight a lie is with the truth. I’ve met my share of private investigators, but I’ve never met one who was qualified or equipped to do the kind of research it’s going to take to find the real facts and make them public. Commander Dorsey told me that you might be just the guy.”

I said, “That’s a compliment. Dalton’s a good man.”

“I like him, too. Very professional, plus, my guess is, he’s got a little circus going on inside him, which I tend to like in people. When he told me about you, first thing I did was look you up on the Internet. No web page-which I found surprising-but you’ve published a lot in journals, and enough of your fellow scientists have quoted your work, so there was plenty to find.”

“I had no idea,” I told her. “A while back, I had an interest in the Internet. I still use it, but just for research. So I haven’t bothered to check out what’s on there about me.”

She was nodding, pleased to be sharing information. “The thing I like is, you’re not attached to any agency. No government funding. You do your own work in your own way, and you obviously know your way around boats and the water. So I’m inviting you to help me figure out what the hell went wrong out there. Your opinion would carry a lot of weight with people who live along this coast, and the media, too. I want my reputation back, Dr. Ford, it’s as simple as that.”

I looked into her face. The late winter sun burnished her skin with a klieg-light gold. In that harsh, parchment light, I could see how she would age; how she would look in ten, twenty, even thirty years. Amelia Gardner was not pretty. She had never been pretty. But she possessed a handsome, prairie-woman’s plainness that is uniquely American, and that I, personally, find far more attractive than the predictable, painted masks of film stars and beauty queens.

Hers was a good face with a strong jaw, eyebrows darker than her red hair, full pale lips, no makeup at all, and a corn-silk down that grew below her temples. There were a few pores visible, and a faint acne scar or two that implied a difficult adolescence. She was an outdoors person with horizontal sun wrinkles on her forehead and at the corners of her eyes; the tennis-player, mountain-bike type who was also a professional. She had a sloping nose shaped like a ski jump and, yes, cat-green eyes. In that brilliant light, her eyes glowed as if illuminated from within, showing little specks of blue and bronze.

I said to her, “I’d like to help, but I’ve got a job, Ms. Gardner. The one person who I could trust to take care of my lab, Janet Mueller, is gone now. I’m sorry.”

I was surprised when she reached and put her hand on my shoulder, a fraternal gesture not often used by women, particularly women strangers. “I want you to think it over. Listen to what I have to say about what happened three weeks ago, then talk to me later. I’ll stay as late as you want. The thing is-”

I said, “What?”

She had her arms folded now, looking at me, and, from her expression, I knew she was trying to decipher the most productive approach for the brand of person she was dealing with-me. How was I best handled? What would be the fastest, most effective angle? It is an increasingly common phenomenon, a calculated brand of assessment and manipulation that may well be taught in business and law schools, yet I find it offensive.

Finally she said, “I have to follow my instincts. So here it is: There’s something I want to tell you, but you have to promise me not to tell the others. You’ll understand why later. If you promise, I’ll take you at your word. I don’t meet many stand-up guys these days, but maybe you’re one of the few.”

“Stand-up guy, huh?” I didn’t say it, but I assumed that what she had to say had something to do with her behavior after the sinking, some guilty secret, a burden she now needed to share.

She seemed surprised by my tone. “Is there something wrong with me thinking you’re trustworthy?”

“We just met.”

“Like I said, I’m going on instinct.”

I was shaking my head. “Sorry, Ms. Gardner. I’ve known the people at this marina much, much longer than I’ve known you. I respect what you did that night, but talking to me privately is the same as speaking to the entire group. If there’s some secret you want to share or maybe even confess, I suggest you contact a priest. But please don’t tell me.”

I could see that it irked her that I’d correctly deduced her religion, and she was clearly annoyed that I was questioning her intent. A friend once told me that newborn redheads ought to by law come with a warning tag on their toe.

Amelia Gardner had a temper. I saw her face flush, her eyes glitter, as she lowered her voice to say, “First of all, pal, I don’t need some oversized, sun-bleached nerd with Coke-bottle glasses to tell me when to see my priest. And second, I’ve got nothing to confess. I’m going to tell you anyway, and if you want to risk hurting Janet’s friends, go right ahead. But I will not play some little role you’ve dreamed up.”

She took half a step toward me, an aggressive move, hands set on broad hips, her nose not much lower than mine, as she added, “This is it: I can’t prove it, but I think there was another boat out there that night. Early that morning. A boat without lights. I saw it. I’m sure I saw it. And I think it may have stopped.

“Commander Dorsey says I was probably imagining things, but I know what happened, I was there. I think it’s possible that they got picked up, Janet and the others. Why else didn’t we find them? What I’m telling you, Mister Doctor Marion Ford, is that I think there’s a chance, a very slim chance, they might be alive.” Then she spun and stalked away, pissed off, demonstrating it by refusing even a chance of additional eye contact.

I stood there, watching her, and gave a private little whistle.

Tomlinson was right. A powerful woman.

I went to my house to change shirts before rejoining the party, reviewing Amelia Gardner’s words as I walked, her nuances of speech, wondering if she really might have seen a boat. Was it possible?

The woman was still much on my mind when I peeked into my lab and flicked on the lights. My pattern of thought shifted instantly. Aloud, I said, “What in the hell is going on in here?”

Two more stone crabs were missing. I’m so familiar with my stock that I knew right away. The heavy glass lid was on the tank, but the little metal vise I’d used to seal it fast lay on the lab’s wooden floor, in a streak of water. I stooped and touched my finger to the tiniest fleck of crab shell in the water.

Someone was sneaking in and stealing my specimens. Someone too sloppy or hurried to replace the vise. Who and why, I couldn’t fathom.

But my eight remaining octopi were still in their covered tanks. That, at least, was a relief. As I checked them, I sensed the solitary, golden eye of the largest Atlantic octopus tracking me from beneath its rock ledge. Its extended tentacle was still throbbing gray, pink, and brown as I switched off the light and locked the door.