Wreckers' Key Read Online Free PDF

competition of any kind very seriously.

    That afternoon, I took my dog ashore on the little spoil island and threw sticks down the narrow beach so she could run and splash into the water. She sometimes found it torture out on the boat—surrounded by all that water and not allowed to jump in. She was a Lab, after all. Australian pines and palmettos grew so thick in the center of the island that when I threw her stick inland, she disappeared into the bush. I called her name. The third time, when I was starting to feel just a little worried, I saw a flock of doves take wing and Abaco came charging out of the brush, the stick in her mouth and her eyes alight with mischief.
    When we got back to the boat, I had a long list of projects waiting. I soon found myself dismantling the accumulator in my freshwater pressure system, which was leaking and causing the pump to tick over several times an hour and keeping me awake through the quiet hours of the night. I kept the radio on, as usual, tuned to channel sixteen, listening to the chatter of the racers and the fishermen and the charter boat captains. Late in the afternoon, I heard the shouts and laughter, the rush of water and creak of rigging, as the schooners returned from their race to Sand Key. I stepped out on deck to see Hawkeye sail by very close to Gorda , and her captain swept off his baseball hat and bowed to me like a swashbuckling hero as they passed.
    “Cute,” I said aloud, even though he was out of earshot. “Very cute.” And I meant it. “Now that the competition is over, he can relax and have fun. Boy, has he changed.”
    Abaco looked up at me and cocked her head.
    “Never mind, girl. I’m just talking to myself,” I said as I watched Ben work the foredeck, furling sails. I found myself hoping he would glance my way again. There was something about the way he sailed and worked his boat that spoke of his love of the sea, and that I found even more attractive than his great new body.
    I laughed out loud. Ben Baker? What was I thinking?
    I watched the sailboats motoring and sailing back to the marina, all in a hurry now for the best part of racing—the party in the bar. Through the boats, I could see the crowd gathering for the nightly sunset celebration on Mallory Pier. The various street performers were erecting their high wires or setting up perches for their performing cats and dogs. The vendors were open and selling their piña coladas, carved coconuts, and shell necklaces, and though the sun wouldn’t set for another hour or so, the pier was already packed with tourists.
    I left the rail and returned to clean up and put away my tools in preparation for the afternoon’s first beer. I was just reaching for an iced Corona when I heard the panic in the voice that seemed to explode from the radio.
    “Mayday, mayday, mayday! Attention all vessels in Key West Harbor. There’s an overdue windsurfer from the Casa Marina beach rentals. Anybody who can help search, please assist.”

IV

    I immediately thought of Nestor. Had Catalina convinced him to go windsurfing after all? I looked at the clock. It was four forty-five. The sun would set at five thirty. After sundown, there would be maybe another thirty minutes in which a downed windsurfing sail might be visible in the light of the waning dusk. After that, forget it. The missing person would spend the night at sea, in the water, and at this time of year that probably meant death. I was sitting by the radio, listening to the Key West Coast Guard marine operator quizzing the kid from the beach rental about the possible location of the missing windsurfer, when I started hearing boat engines.
    Out on deck, the scene before me was remarkable. There were charter fishing skiffs, muscle boats, big sport-fishermen, sailboats, and runabouts of all kinds charging out the channel. They were all headed toward Sand Key, the place the kid at the windsurfer rental shack had said his customer was headed for. One thing I had to