A Sea Too Far (2 page)

Conchshell wagged her tail across the water and yelped encouragement.

The second run was equally as vigorous as the first, although slightly shorter. The bonefish’s fatigue was becoming evident, and Warren was able to retrieve all the lost backing and ten feet of fly line before the third long run.

A series of shorter efforts to flee were finally halted, and after fifteen minutes Warren was able to bring the bonefish close to his feet. He pointed the rod tip over his shoulder and grabbed the ten-foot leader in his left hand.

Conchshell stood still behind Warren, content to watch the release procedure without interference. The experienced dog realized activity on her part would further frighten the fish and make the hook removal more difficult. A satisfied, high-pitched hum accompanied her excited panting.

Warren clutched the fly rod between his knees and pulled the exhausted bonefish toward him with the leader. He supported the fish in the water with his left hand and tenderly removed the fly from the bonefish’s hard jaw with his right. Warren’s earlier compression of the barb on the fly made the extraction process considerably easier.

“At least ten pounds,” he said with a proud smile toward Conchshell. “Maybe eleven.”

The bonefish remained motionless in Warren’s hand, its gills pulsing as it sipped refreshing water to restore the energy lost in the fight.

“Thanks,” Warren said as the fish slowly wiggled its tail and swam from his palm, tired but unharmed. “Thanks.”

Conchshell’s sudden growl and raised tail turned Warren’s attention from the retreating fish. “What is it, Shelly girl?”

The dorsal fin of a five-foot lemon shark cut the water fifty yards in front of Warren. The opportunistic shark was homing directly on the released bonefish.

Normally, a bonefish has no fear of a shark. Their superior speed enables them to easily outrun such a pursuer. But an exhausted bonefish is simple prey for a determined shark.

“Oh, no, you don’t,” Warren shouted at the intruding lemon shark. “You’re not going to make a meal of my bonefish.”

Without hesitation, Warren started to run toward the shark, seeking to cut off its attack. He raised his fly rod to swat the shark, but before he could bring the tip of the rod down on the shark’s head, Conchshell bounded past him barking ferociously.

The noise of Conchshell’s gallop, her four legs churning the shallow water to frothy foam, and her menacing growls, turned the shark from its intended prey. The lemon shark spun abruptly and retreated in the opposite direction, away from the quickly disappearing bonefish.

“Good girl,” Warren called as he splashed to a halt beside his dog and patted her vigorously. “Good girl.”

Together they turned from the sulking shark and watched as their bonefish faded from view into the deep-water channel beyond the broad flat.

“Let’s head for home,” Warren suggested as Conchshell shook water from her head and back. “Mom might have some chores for us before supper. We’ve stirred up this flat enough to keep any more bonefish away for a while.”

Conchshell nodded in agreement, but turned toward the southeast horizon, recalling her earlier premonitions of difficult weather approaching. The blonde Labrador growled as if to dare the storm to approach.

Warren looked at the far sky and blinked once to be certain he was seeing clearly. A tiny band of heavy black clouds etched the most distant corner of the heavens. The boy lowered his gaze and scanned the water immediately beyond the channel. A long swell was developing which was completely inconsistent with the gentle breeze. Strong winds, hundreds of miles away, were pushing water toward the island.

“I don’t like the look of that, Shelly girl,” Warren said with seriousness in his voice that belied his age. “I wish Dad weren’t off in Fort Lauderdale. We may be in for some trouble.”

~2~
 

Warren and Conch departed the bonefish flat and walked up the beach toward the single lane macadam road that ran along the ridgeline above the small bluff. Brightly painted houses in a variety of pastel colors dotted the simple thoroughfare. Wooden shutters hung on the sides of the windows, and Warren wondered idly if the inhabitants would soon be closing them for an approaching storm.

Hurricanes were a common threat in the Bahamas as well as the Caribbean, although most of the storms passed to the north or south of the island chain. A direct hit from a killer storm was thankfully a rarity.

Warren had watched his parents prepare for storms in the past. He knew the potential for destruction from the stories of those who had survived major assaults on their homes and possessions. Why had there been no warning of this apparent storm? The information was always available on the satellite weather channel or the Internet. Had he misread the threatening sky?

“Hello, Warren,” Mrs. Rolle called from her garden beside her yellow house. “You been fishin’ again?”

“Hello, Mrs. Rolle,” Warren yelled back with an enthusiastic wave of his fly rod. “Yep! Conch and I caught a big bonefish on the east flat.”

“Is there ever a day you don’t catch somethin’?” Mrs. Rolle laughed.

“Not many,” Warren said shaking his head with a wide grin across his face. “My Dad taught us pretty well.”

“Us?” Mrs. Rolle repeated with a smile. “I swear you treat that dog like another human bein’.”

“My Mom says Conch’s about as smart as some humans she’s met,” Warren said. “There isn’t much she doesn’t seem to understand.”

Conchshell barked happily at the sound of her name.

Warren turned and pointed to the southeast. “Mrs. Rolle, I haven’t heard of a storm coming our way, but that sky looks very threatening. You might want to think about closing your shutters this evening.”

The woman looked in the direction Warren indicated and squinted her old eyes. “I didn’t see anything on the television,” she said. “But I don’t like the look of that cloud line, either. Thank you, Warren.”

“No bother, Mrs. Rolle,” Warren said brightly. “If you need some help later, just call our house.”

“You’re a good boy, Warren Early,” Mrs. Rolle said as she resumed her digging. Her cheery countenance had been replaced by a concerned frown.

* * *

“Mom,” Warren called as he opened the unlocked front door and stepped into the living room. “We’re home.”

Rhonda Early peered around the corner of the kitchen and wiped her hands on a towel. She was strikingly beautiful at age thirty-six with shoulder length blonde hair, powder blue eyes and a slim, toned build.

“Hi, honey,” she replied as she bent slightly from her five foot-eight inch height to kiss Warren warmly on the cheek. “How was fishing today?”

Conchshell barked affirmatively and rose on her rear legs. She stretched her front paws to Rhonda’s chest and waited for a hug and kiss of her own.

“We caught a bonefish that would go over ten pounds,” Warren said as he began to remove his fly reel from the rod to give it a fresh water cleaning. His father had carefully instilled in Warren the responsibility for proper care of his equipment.

“That’s wonderful, darling,” Rhonda enthused. “When you talk to your Dad this evening, be sure to tell him. He’ll be very proud.”

Warren’s tone turned suddenly serious. “Have you heard anything about the weather, Mom? The sky looks bad way off in the distance. It’s black, and I noticed a swell building in the deep water as we were leaving the flat.”

Rhonda’s eyebrows wrinkled with concern. “Let’s go outside,” she said. “Show me. I haven’t had the television on all day.”

Together, Rhonda, Warren and Conch walked to the rear porch of the cottage and looked over the flats stretching to the east and the deep water beyond. The summer sun was still high, but a thickening veil of scattered clouds had begun to fan across the near sky. Gone was the bright, uncloaked blue overhead. To the southeast the deep, black scar of a storm line was distinctly closer, broader and more ominous.

“That’s more than a summer squall,” Rhonda said immediately. “Turn on the television to the weather channel. I’m going to call your Dad in Florida and see if he’s heard anything.”

Rhonda scurried to the telephone and dialed her husband’s cell phone number.

“Morgan?” she said slightly breathless when he answered on the fourth ring.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Morgan Early said the moment he heard the concern in his wife’s voice. “Is something wrong?”

“Have you heard about a storm coming this way?” Rhonda asked without preamble. “Warren just came home and pointed out the southeast sky. It looks very serious. More than just a summer squall.”

“I haven’t heard a thing,” Morgan replied. “I’ve been busy getting the next phase of
Escapade’s
upcoming work scheduled at the boatyard.”

Escapade
was the Earlys’ sixty-foot custom sportfishing boat that they lived on in Palm Beach Shores, Florida. With new engines being installed, it was impossible to remain aboard. The Early family had rented a small house on Serenity Cay in the Bahamas for the summer while the extensive work was being performed.

Morgan was a very successful professional charter fishing captain with an impressive list of active clients. The major scheduled service meant that Morgan had divided his days between Florida and the rented house for the past month, alternating time with his family on the island and being on-hand in Florida at critical junctures during the re-power operation.

Rhonda was a former professional tennis player ranked thirty-third in the world at the zenith of her career. In Florida she taught tennis at the prestigious community of Lost Palm Village. To fill her mornings and early afternoons on Serenity Cay, she had started a free tennis clinic for the island children on the single court adjacent to the elementary school.

The venture was immediately successful. Within a week Rhonda had thirty enthusiastic young students taking group lessons with rackets she had arranged to be delivered to the island.

“Mom,” Warren yelled from the little den that housed the television set. “Come quick.”

Rhonda carried the remote phone into the small room and turned toward the screen. A serious man, dressed in collared shirt and necktie, sat in front of a map of lower Florida, the Bahamas and the northern Caribbean. A large, counter-clockwise spiraling cloud formation, with a distinct hole in the approximate center, circled to the southeast of the central Bahamas.

“Turn the volume up,” Rhonda said quickly to Warren.

Meteorologist Dr. Paul Smathers continued his report in mid-sentence. “...the suddenness of hurricane Danica’s formation is extremely unusual. Typically hurricanes originate off the coast of Africa as waves of low pressure, but this storm seems to have developed spontaneously in the northwestern Caribbean. Nevertheless, the storm should be taken very seriously. Sustained winds of 120 miles-per-hour are reported with gusts to 140.”

The dark-haired, female anchorperson pointed over her shoulder toward Florida and in a concerned voice asked: “Dr. Smathers, can you predict with any certainty where the storm will hit the United States?”

“At this point, the eye of the storm appears headed toward Florida, striking the coast somewhere between Palm Beach and St. Augustine. Naturally, we can’t be more definitive at this early juncture,” Dr. Smathers reported. “But another interesting feature of the storm is that it is moving to the northwest at about twenty miles-per-hour. This is very rapid movement for a named hurricane.”

The camera panned away from the meteorologist and focused on the anchorperson. “Thank you, Dr. Smathers, for the latest update on the storm.”

Rhonda motioned to Warren to lower the volume on the television as she walked with the phone from the den toward the kitchen. “Were you able to hear any of that?” she asked Morgan.

“Yes,” Morgan replied, the concern evident in his voice. “I heard, and it doesn’t sound good for the Bahamas.”

“The storm is moving fast,” Rhonda said. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you can get back here before it hits.”

Morgan’s journeys between Florida and the small Bahamian vacation island had not been direct. He had taken a small charter plane from the island to Nassau and then a scheduled Continental Connection flight to Fort Lauderdale.

“I’ll look at the schedule again,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure there’s only one Continental flight a day from here to Nassau, and that one has already left. Perhaps I could find a charter company to fly me to the island . . .”

“No,” Rhonda said firmly. “I don’t want you flying in a little plane into a hurricane. We’ll be fine here.”

“Are you sure?” Morgan asked. “I wish I was there. I don’t like the thought of you and Warren alone in the house with a storm bearing down on you.”

Rhonda laughed to relieve the tension of the moment. “Don’t you worry about us,” she said brightly. “We’ll be fine. Just make sure
Escapade
makes it through without any damage. You’re protecting our home, you know.”

Sobered by the thought of preparing the sportfishing boat for a storm, Morgan drew a deep breath. “Maybe it
is
better I’m here,” he said.

“Call tonight,” Rhonda said forcing confidence into her voice. “I’m going to prepare the house. I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Morgan said. “Give Warren a kiss for me.”

“I will,” Rhonda said as she disconnected and walked toward the back of the house to look again at the approaching line of menacing clouds. The sight caused her to shiver with concern.

~3~
 

Rhonda replaced the phone receiver in the cradle and sat on one of the three bar stools that lined the eating counter in the kitchen. It was the middle of July. Hurricanes didn’t usually form until later in the summer. Most of the bad storms in recent years had actually occurred in late September or October. This was certainly bad luck, especially with Morgan stuck in Florida. But Rhonda was not unaccustomed to dealing with dangerous situations.

“Turn off the television,” Rhonda called to Warren. “We have a lot to do if this hurricane is going to pay us a visit.”

Warren pushed the POWER button on the remote and walked into the kitchen. “I wonder if anybody else on the island knows about the storm, Mom. Maybe I should get on my bike and ride around and tell people to start getting ready.”