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inflatable. Now that I was here in Key West, I wished I had my Boston Whaler with me, but I’d decided against towing it all those miles. The inflatable fit inside the aft deck box along with the little six-horse Nissan outboard, but it made for a wet ride going back and forth to the anchorage out off Christmas Tree Island in these strong winter winds. The outboard was running really ragged, and though she eventually warmed up and smoothed out, the popping and sputtering continued. If I wasn’t hauling any cargo and the water was fairly flat, I could get it up onto a plane, but today wasn’t going to be one of those days.
    The wind was blowing out of the west at fifteen to eighteen knots, and I was motoring right into a nasty chop. The small waves broke over the pontoons, drenching my pants and forcing me to throttle down to an agonizingly slow pace.
    By the time I got to the boat, my black Lab, Abaco, was leaping for joy and trying to crawl down into the dinghy with me. I kept a piece of Astroturf tied to a length of line on deck for emergencies, but she hated to use it. She’d get this guilty look and slink off to the foredeck in shame whenever nature forced her to relieve herself on board. I never wanted to put her through that. She needed to get to shore quickly, but all I could think about was getting aboard and getting out of my now wet clothes.
    There were dozens of boats flanking the west side of Christmas Tree Island anchored along the edge of the Northwest Channel, the best route for heading to the Dry Tortugas. Most were cruising sailboats, although there was one big classic motor yacht at the opposite end of the anchorage that I’d heard this morning belonged to some Danish heiress. A giant brown dog, hard to tell what breed from this distance, strolled the decks and barked at boats that came too close. I’d yet to see anyone aboard take that dog ashore, I thought as I hurried below to change.
    When I stepped out of the deckhouse about twenty minutes later, I saw a parade of schooners charging past, hard on the wind, making for the outer channel. There must have been nearly a dozen of them, from the smallest—a little 30-some-footer with gaff-rigged tanbark sails—to the grand 130-foot Western Union , Key West’s own flagship. They all had full sails flying and were having to tack their way out of the harbor, not an easy feat with all those gaffs and topsails and square sails. They had just crossed the starting line off the beam of my tug, and Hawkeye was in the lead. I could see costumed characters on nearly all the boats, eye patches, head scarves, and striped pantaloons marking the pirate-like gear most of the crews sported. Abaco startled when a loud boom and a puff of smoke heralded a cannon shot from the schooner Wolf . The wharf ashore was lined with spectators, and, like good Floridians, a few of them hit the dirt at the sound of the gunfire, while the rest laughed and pointed at the picturesque boats pretending to battle for first rights to the wreck. The Appledore responded with another cannon shot as she attempted to overtake the Western Union , and the tourist charter guests on the big schooner responded with applause.
    Over on Hawkeye , though, there was no sign of the usual Key West craziness—no costumed blokes hanging from the rigging waving mugs of grog. I reached into the wheelhouse and pulled out my binoculars. Through them, I watched Ben at the wheel, hunched forward, as though urging his boat on. He wore a yellow foul-weather jacket and a dark baseball cap pulled low over his face so I couldn’t really even see his profile. He nodded once, then spun the wheel around to execute a near-perfect tack. He had a young kid crewing for him, cranking on the winches. His charter guests sat huddled around the front of the oval cockpit watching the two men handle the big schooner with almost graceful precision. The Wreckers’ Race wasn’t really much of a race, but it appeared Ben Baker took