The world market demands sea products. Nothing is going to change hat. When there are innate conflicts between man and the environment, I believe it is wiser to dilute the problem by sharing and wisely regulating the burden. Saltwater and sea creatures do not acknowledge the boundaries of states or nations.
I told the guides that. I could have added that because the amendment had been couched as an ultimatum, a reasonable person had no choice but to vote for the ban—unless that person wanted to register a protest vote against the spineless behavior of the legislature. But I didn't tell them that. Didn't want it to sound as if I were trying to contrive an excuse. Instead, I said, "Truth is, I voted against the ban."
Nels looked at Felix and nodded: See? I told you.
The men shuffled around on the dock, no longer hostile, but neither were they conciliatory. Nels said, "I'm sorry to hear that. I truly am. I always figured you for a friend of ours."
Jeth was upset, becoming impatient. "He told you why he did it. Jesus damn! He had reasons. What's the big deal? A lousy vote."
"The big deal," Nels said, "is, you looked at my boat lately? I'll shoot the next one. You tell your netter buddies that, Doc. I swear to God I will.
When you're up there on Sulphur Wells, trying to make 'em feel better 'cause that sonuvabitch burned up, you tell 'em."
I was getting a little impatient myself. "You think I approve of them blowing up boats because of the way I voted? That's stupid. You can take that any way you want to take it, Nels. Like you said—I thought we were friends."
"Well. . . it's something we're gonna have to think about. Yes it is. This is serious shit and we need to know who stands where."
I started the engine and pushed away from the dock. Tomlinson was over by the canoe ramp talking with Mack. When he saw me, he strolled out. I pressed bow-up to the pier so he could step aboard, then backed into deeper water.
"Just like you wanted," he said, "I got the information. Gumbo Limbo, that's where Jimmy Darroux lived." He held up a six-pack of Coors Light. "Brought the entertainment, too."
I didn't say anything; wanted to get away from the marina first. When we were out of the harbor, I let it go: "You damn dumb old hippie! Why'd you tell the guides we're going to Sulphur Wells?"
"Hey," he said. "I'm not that old. What's this 'old' business?"
"It didn't cross your mind they might be just a little upset about their boats?"
"For sure. Exactly what I intended, too. Those fellas—I love 'em, don't get me wrong—but those fellas, they're way too hung up on material possessions, man. Man gets killed, all they can think about is their boats."
"Yeah, and making their mortgage payments and feeding their kids. Jesus, Tomlinson!"
He was making a calming motion with his hands. "Don't freak out on me here, Doc. You'll ruin the whole ambience of the trip. Although . . . although ... at least you're showing some emotion. A growing experience—that's good. Any kind of emotion—for you, that's real good."
"A growing experience, my ass! Like you're doing me a favor? Let me tell you something, Tomlinson—I may have lost a couple of friends tonight. And I disappointed a lady who doesn't appear to need any more disappointment. All because of you."
He was suddenly interested. "A lady, huh? No shit. Pretty? Who's the lady?"
I told him. Watched him fold his hands and nod sagely. "Yes, Janet has had some trouble. Heavy domestic stuff. . . but I can't go into it. We've had some long talks."
I found that irritating—was there anyone who didn't pour out their soul to the guy? But I didn't want to hear anymore of his Ping-Pong talk. I stood at the wheel and pressed the throttle forward. Felt the wind-roar torque, felt the trim of the skiff settle low and fast over the water as I steered us out past Woodring Point, then west toward the Mail Boat Channel, running backcountry as far off the Intercoastal as I could get. The sun was low, diffused by clouds. The clouds resembled desert mountains . . . bronze-streaked, like an Arizona landscape. To my right, far across the water, was St. James City. To the left, Sanibel was an expanding mangrove hedge above which a crown of milky light bloomed: they were playing Softball at the school field; already had the lights on even though there was an hour of daylight left.
Tomlinson went forward and began to rummage through the cold-storage locker. "Want a beer?" he yelled.
He'd forgotten that I no longer drank beer during the week. Popping three or four Coors prior to bedtime had gotten to be a habit, and habits have a way of ultimately dominating the host. So I now drank only on Fridays and Saturdays. Today was Thursday.
"Nope," I said.
Ten minutes later, when Captiva Pass was a small breach of silver in the charcoal void, he was pawing through the ice again. Looked up at me to say, "You ready for another one?"
Chapter 3
Sulphur Wells was a back bay island named for the artesian springs that Spanish fishermen found when they settled there in the 1700s. The island was isolated by shallow water and a haze of mosquitoes that bred in the mangrove fringe. Because Sulphur Wells had no beaches, it had yet to be divvied up, reconstituted, and sodded by resort conglomerates and international investment groups. But the island's day would come. Florida developers were running out of beachfront property, so the back bay islands were the next logical target of the concrete stalwart. Now, though, the economy of Sulphur Wells—what there was of it—was still based on agriculture, commercial fishing, and blue-collar winter residents who didn't have the money for big-ticket properties over on Gasparilla Island or Manasota Key.
In this way, Sulphur Wells was a Florida anachronism. The people grew peppers and pineapples and mangoes; they wholesaled mullet and blue crabs caught from boats that they had built up from wooden stringers and glassed themselves. There were a couple of stores, but no mall, no 7-Elevens, no car lots. The Florida of Disney World and Holiday Inn, the slick destination of interstates and jetports, was far away, over on the mainland, across the steel swing bridge that joined Sulphur Wells with the current decade; a decade which, inevitably, presaged the island's own future.
I ran up the eastern rim of Pine Island Sound toward Charlotte Harbor, hugging the mangrove banks. I had visited the island a few times by truck on recent buying trips. Still had a few friends who lived there; guys I'd known back in high school. But it had been years since I had boated to the small settlement where Darroux was said to have lived, Gumbo Limbo.
Which meant that I wasn't familiar with the submerged creeks and gutters that constitute channels on the flats. The water was seldom more than a couple of feet deep and, worse, the weak light made the bottom tough to read. The tide was up but falling, so I held to the wind-roiled water; avoided the slick streaks that can be created by the surface tension of protruding sea grass or oysters. Had the engine jacked high, Tomlinson on the bow, running sheer.
Sulphur Wells lay to the east, a long ridge of mangroves and casuarinas. Occasionally, the mangroves would thin to reveal the docks of a fish camp or a cluster of mobile homes. The trailers were set up on blocks, like derelict cars, their aluminum shells faded a chalky white or pink. As we flew past, a man looked up from a fish-cleaning table and stared. A woman gathering wash gave us a friendly wave. Both were quickly absorbed by the marl shore and crowding mangroves. Just east of a mangrove thicket called Part Island, we raised Gumbo Limbo: a curvature of land that extended into the water, its perimeter fringed by a strand of coconut palms. Now, at afterglow, the trunks of the palms were yellow, the canopies black, their heavy fronds interlaced like macaw feathers. A dozen or so wooden houses were elevated on shell mounds beyond. I could see the glow of their windows through the bare limbs of gumbo-limbo trees. Some of the windows were still trimmed with Christmas lights. Houses and palms appeared buoyant on the small raft of land, supported by the mass of water, but adrift, as if the freshening wind could blow the village out to sea.