The Boating Accident

Black Abyss

Straits of Florida, 1995

He was starting to think they wouldn't make it. While their mish-mash of tires and pallets that formed a floatation device got battered by waves taller than buildings, he pleaded for his little brother to hold on to the rope. Just nine, the wiry child nodded through tears as his hands bled onto their only hope of leaving the oppressive island for a new home with an uncle they'd never met.

What if all his candy-coated promises didn't come true? He'd described all the food you could eat in America - anything you want and you can have it your way. This distraction was beginning to look like more of a mask that covered a gaping uncertainty.

The uncle had already been wrong about the storm. Instead of triumphant and sparkling blues, the sky brooded a heavy gray and the sea stretched between misery and destiny in inky black.

He couldn't think of that. He had to focus on this marathon race against time, crossing the miles of agonizing ocean before they could rest their water-logged feet on dry land.

He'd explained about the motor oil they would have to be slathered in, to ward off sharks in case their craft capsized in the swells, but nothing could prepare him for the circle of silver light that held his brother captive as his tiny body let go of the tattered stained rope and sunk into the black abyss.

Atlantic Ocean off Miami, twenty years later...

"Check out that beauty," James whistled. "She's a real catch!"

"Ju mean a ketch?" Hector corrected in his squeaky accent. "As een type of sailboat."

"That too."

The elegant craft glided across the current, cutting a path through the muck of worker boats. Her shellacked wood frame was accessorized with every kind of fancy rigging money could buy, and the crew looked equally put together. A photographer on board steadied his professional lens on the ocean race while a gray-haired guy - whose picture could qualify under the definition of Captain - stood at the helm.

Like girls who could pull off sexy fashions without looking like dress-up time in Mom's closet, ego dripped from these sails. The name bolted to the side reeked of authority: Royal Flush. She sliced through yards of lashing waves like those "it" girls breaking hall chatter. "I bet whoever owns that's worth millions of dollars," James suggested.

"Meellions and meellions." Hector spoke as if in a trance from behind binoculars.

Royal Flush didn't stick around to see a reaction. She slipped past the traffic now clogging the route. Flags snapped as hulls dipped precariously through the choppy waves, all vying for position to view the race.

Bambino jolted to a stop as ships crowded around, blocking the path. "Okay, I think this is good," Captain Luis shouted.

"Can't you get closer?" James asked; nothing was ever dangerous enough for him. The tour aboard Bambino had promised close viewing of the ocean race and he wanted his money's worth.

Luis elbowed his way up a notch in traffic. Bambino swayed and jerked as a sleek hull bobbed above them. They had made it to the lunch table where Royal Flush held court.

The storm and all the wakes spun massive waves. Bambino tilted precariously, careening at a sharp angle. Each time they swung high to the left and right, like a boarder in the half pipe about to smack the edge.

James' seventeen-year-old daughter, Star, stood and grasped a metal pole that up to this point had seemed in the way. A rhythm began but then changed so she had to keep track of it to know which way to throw her weight. Weaving from side to side, she focused on her bizarre pole-dancing routine as Luis steered the booty-shaking machine into heckling waves.