HOW WE MET

Chapter 17:

VICTORY?

I was so close, so very close, yet I was still far away. I felt her, as if I could reach over and touch her, as if she were right there with me. And maybe she was. As I sailed the Gulf waters I felt as if I was in some kind of bubble, a protective shell surrounding me. Was it Heather? Was she secretly using her powerful forces to protect me? If she could freeze me, turn my brain into a numb block of ice as she had done so many times before, she certainly could use that same vibe to protect me. I floated along in my bubble for days. I was close, yet still so far away.

From Marco Island, headed north, there are a few smaller inlets (Naples, Keewaydin) before the next big port, Ft. Myers/Sanibel, where the Caloosahatchee River empties into the Gulf of Trump. (Incidentally, Sailor’s parents retired to Sanibel Island and Sailor has stopped there several times on the Love Boat, once ducking in for a few days to avoid a hurricane). I touched base with every known boating facility along the coast and up the river, all to no avail. No sightings of Q, no sightings of an adorable, petite English lady radiating a strong inner glow. I kept on. Determination, grit, and her powerful attraction were all that kept me going.

It took a full day from Marco Island to the Caloosahatchee River. With no sightings, I merely ducked into the inlet far enough to be sheltered from the Gulf weather and dropped my anchor. I freed myself from the bottom just before daybreak and headed north. The end of the next day found me at Venice. I like Venice, having been there a few times in the past. The inlet is between two rock jetties and is treacherous under the strong tide flow. One time I was entering the inlet against an outgoing tide. I saw my speed-over-ground go from 5 knots to 1.5 knots instantly. My boat requires a 1 knot forward speed to maintain steerage. It was agony having the trusty Yanmar diesel engine above red line, screaming like a banshee, and the fucking shoreline barely creeping by. But once tied to a dock at the small marina just inside the jetties, it’s most pleasant. Two restaurants in the marina, both top notch.

But I had other things on my agenda rather than a nice overnight in Venice. I sailed right on by, anchoring further north, offshore, just a half day away from Tampa Bay. It had been nearly impossible to canvass Tampa Bay for Q sightings. Tampa Bay is huge, an international port with dozens of freighters, a large military base, and a gazillion private recreational boats. There are just too many targets to research. I turned my attention to the largest, most likely outfits and had one sighting. The St. Petersburg Municipal Marina is giant. The dockmaster, Fred, is a true character. First time I met him, lounging in his highbacked office chair, “Fred, I’m buying a boat. Any liveaboard slips available?” “Don’t do it.” What? “Don’t buy a boat.”

A few hours away from Southwest Channel, the first entrance to Tampa Bay coming from the south, I called Fred. He said that Q didn’t dock there but he had seen her on anchor just off the channel outside the marina. Said she stayed there for a good three or four days, riding her dinghy in and out. She paid Fred’s marina the daily rate to use their dinghy dock, a common practice. “Never actually met her or spoke to her myself, but she certainly caught your glance. She was in here a couple times, talking to Wilbur, the fuel dock manager. Quite the looker, that one. Dock hands said she was from Australia or England. Had that accent, you know?”

“When did she leave and where was she headed, Fred?”

“Not certain but I think she was gone about 2 days ago. And she didn’t file no float plan if that’s what you mean. Said she was going up yonder to Tarpon Springs. Had heard about the sponging and all the Greek shit. Wanted to see the place. Said she’d be back this way when she was done, something about the water being too skinny up that way. She’s right, you know. Didn’t make no reservation or nothing, but wanted transient rates.”

“Fred, you’re a gentleman and a scholar. Thank you, dear friend. Look for a bottle of scotch in your Christmas stocking this year. You’ve earned it.”

Now I had a serious choice to make, yet another high-risk gamble. Where are those dice? Should I stay in Tampa Bay, recoup and lie in wait? Or should I forge ahead and hope to corner her in Tarpon Springs? I turned the boat eastward into the Southwest Channel leading into Tampa Bay. Inside Egmont Key at the mouth of the large, open Bay, I motored north a mile or so and dropped anchor. Off the lee of Egmont Key is a great anchorage. I’ve used it many times. It was a perfect location right at the mouth of Tampa Bay.

It was dusk by the time I got firmly hooked to the bottom and the boat tided up. My scotch delivered in an English cut glass vessel never tasted so good. Reclining in the cockpit, I searched for her. I deployed my antennae and waved my tentacles sensing for her presence. If she was headed for Tarpon Springs, she was within a day’s sail. Closer than I had been to my coveted in months. My desires and my desperation united against my fears and insecurities. The unknown future descended upon me, I writhed under its weight. What if….

The scotch, the moonlight, the stars all helped me drift into an altered state. Visions of Heather wafted through my mind. Pictures of Q, the magnificent pirate vessel, were interspersed with a vignette of my times with her: at the pub, at the University, on the Love Boat. She was the woman of my dreams, and I was dreaming of nothing else. I felt her compact body, warm and inviting, holding me tightly as my arms encircled her. Her lips, swollen with passion, were wet and supple. She gave me everything I wanted, everything I needed.

I was brought out of my blissful revery slowly, cautiously, becoming aware of a persistent noise. A noise that demanded attention. My phone. “Private number – Restricted.” Knowing that I was as close as I was and feeling a bit confident, I answered “Hello, Heather?”

Her voice was smooth, calm, controlled. Almost friendly. “Hello, Sailor. I trust that you’re resting comfortably now that you’ve caught me. Or is catch the improper verb? You colonists have twisted the King’s English so perversely.” She paused and I couldn’t think fast enough to create a response. It was that freezing power she had over me, coming across the airwaves. Damn she was good.

“Mr. Sailor, I’ve come to reason with many things on this voyage. One of them is you and how you impact my life. I’d like to propose a detente. Tomorrow I’ll be bringing Q into Tampa Bay. I haven’t decided a specific landing spot yet. Once I get settled somewhere I’ll let you know. After that we can visit. It’s that or I’ll be gone so fast you won’t even know I was here.”

I breathed a monumental sigh of relief. She was willing to see me. “We can visit” she said. I felt like a balloon about to pop yet limp and deflated at the same time. I gave a huge sigh and said “Thank you, Heather. That’s more than I could ever ask for. Thank you. You drive a hard bargain, and I have no choice. I’m just thankful that you’re safe and still in one piece. Tell me when you’re arriving tomorrow and I’ll help you get situated. It’s the least I can do, Heather.”

Heather laughed a hearty laugh. “Ha! Sailor! No, No, No. This meeting is on my terms, just like all the others. There will be no bumbling Inspector Clouseau like you’ve acted in the past. No meetings with my General Counsel, no ticketed boat tours. Who knows? I might already be there, tucked away somewhere. Or I might enter the harbor under the cover of darkness. All boats running at night have the same running lights. Green starboard, Red port, White stern. I even know that sailboats under power must have a motoring light displayed after dusk. I’ve learned a lot more about boating than you may think, Sailor.” Click. Whirr.

Blown away. Totally. She was willing to meet with me, face-to-face. I sat in the cockpit, stunned, until I felt the tears dancing down my cheeks. They were tears of joy, tears of hope, tears of promise. My emotions were torn to shreds, fighting one another, hugging one another. My mind felt like the fourth of July looks. Fireworks exploding, sending showers of shiny orbs, tiny dots in the sky, floating down like a parachute. Each one carried Heather in a mass invasion, falling from the sky in droves. The sensations overwhelmed me, the visions fading to black.

The morning sun blinded me. My back was sore from a restless night spent in the cockpit. Groaning and creaking, I made my way below and used muscle memory to assemble coffee. I found the aspirin, taking two for good measure. Coffee in hand, I began waking up my brain and having it explore my upcoming reunion with English royalty. She had said today and today was now today. All I could do was wait for her next call and watch the incoming boat channels for a possible sighting of Q entering the Bay.

Chapter 18:

THE REUNION

I kept watch from the cockpit. Binoculars in hand, I examined every vessel entering or leaving Tampa Bay. At 9 a.m. I called Fred at the massive municipal marina. Nothing. No Q, no Heather. Maybe she hadn’t been fooling yesterday. Maybe she was already in the Bay, hiding somewhere. Tampa Bay is much too large to see every corner, even with binoculars. I made one more scan of both channels entering the Bay and went below for more coffee and to let some out. I was a nervous wreck. My brain wasn’t working properly, I was much too distracted. After wiping up the coffee I had clumsily spilled, I returned to the cockpit to continue my vigilance.

About 10 a.m., I saw a sailboat entering the Bay through Tampa Bay Channel on the north end of Egmont Key. I whipped my binoculars up to get a closer look. The boat was nearly two miles away from my anchor spot, but it looked like Q. And it was in trouble. It was listing to port and emitting clouds of black smoke from the exhaust. The engine was obviously failing, and the boat was just crawling along. I gauged its speed against the shoreline behind it, and she was only making about two or three knots.

I jumped on the VHF radio. “Sailing vessel Q, sailing vessel Q, Blow Me hailing sailing vessel Q, come back. Over” I repeated hailing Q on the VHF radio several times with no response. I grabbed an air horn and stepped up on deck. I pointed it her direction and blasted it over and over. Suddenly, I saw Q turn toward me. Then my phone lit up. “Private number – Restricted.”

I hit answer and screamed into the phone “Heather, are you okay? You’re engine’s smoking, is everything alright?”

She was sobbing and had difficulty blurting out “Sailor, I’m in trouble! I’m headed toward you. I hope I can make it.” She dropped her phone on the helm, but the call did not disconnect. I could hear her crying and sobbing as she wrestled with her emotions, her ship, and her fate. I felt helpless as she was still too far away to do anything helpful. I formed a plan and deployed fenders along the gunwale and readied some rafting lines. When she was a half mile away, I dropped the dinghy and sped toward her. Using skills that had been acquired over decades on the water, I tied to her slowly moving boat and climbed the swim ladder.

As I rushed forward to the bow, I screamed at her “Kill the motor, Heather! Turn it off!” The forward momentum caused Q to drift silently toward my boat, very slowly. When we were a couple hundred feet away, I dropped her anchor and let the entire rode play out.