Marathon Gold
By Chris James
Chapter One
A Short Introduction
The Florida Keys are a beautiful string of islands curving off the southern tip of the Florida mainland, one of the most beautiful spots in the entire country. I was just a boy of twelve when I first rode down Route 1, the Overseas Highway, to visit my relatives. The year was 1960, a time of change in my life. Soon there would be a change in the lives of all who lived there.
Everyone in the country knows about Key West and the Seven Mile Bridge that spans a vast stretch of water connecting Marathon on Vaca Key to Big Pine Key. I was about to spend an entire summer with my aunt and uncle's family, a working vacation, my very first job. I would be a bait boy on a tourist boat.
The big concern for adults at that time was Communism, and the island of Cuba with Fidel Castro in charge lay just ninety-nine miles away. But as a boy I had been raised on the lore and wonder of sailing ships which plied the seas just over a century before. Romantic and adventuresome tales of sailors abounded in my head, although I was beginning to understand that the reality was far different.
The Caribbean had been rife with men who called themselves buccaneers. A bloodthirsty and greedy lot these pirates. The name evokes images of a black flag bearing a skull and cross bones. Tales of hidden treasure and the men who buried it: Blackbeard, Captain Kidd, Morgan the Pirate. Treasure Island by Robert Louis Stevenson was probably on every child's bookshelf, it was the stuff of my dreams.
To my delight I discovered that the not too distant past of Vaca Key and the other islands in the chain held their own secrets of pirate lore. These things were to keep me fascinated for many years, and now I get to bring them alive in a story for you, the reader.
This is a story of fiction. As much as I would like to lay claim to all these events as a reality of my young life this is not the case. My characters are fictional, except for certain notable and sometimes nasty historical persons. I have attempted to portray the landscape and seascape accurately to the best of my ability, but I am hardly a salt encrusted sailor.
And finally, this is a story for boys of all ages no matter where you might live. For once upon a time we all had dreams of our own Treasure Island. I hope you enjoy mine.
Chris James, 2010
Jimmy swerved his bike to miss the green turtle in the middle of the road. The rear tire skidded on the white coral roadbed, almost sending him into the ditch. It was a small sea turtle of some kind, and this one was only about a foot long. But he could tell it was heading towards the ocean, poor little fella, that was quite a distance.
The sandy verge of the road was covered in cord grass and railroad vine, a pretty tough jungle for a little turtle to traverse. Beyond that there was the stand of scrub pines and the buttonwood trees. How the hell did the little guy get way over here?
Jimmy sighed. Some tourist must have caught it and then turned it loose. He looked up and down the road but there was no one in sight. Of course not, it was Friday and everyone was at work, or off the island. No one lived out this way except old man Clark, the Martin sisters and his family. He dropped his bike in the road and went for the turtle.
"Come on, little fella... I'll take you home."
He scooped the turtle up behind the front flippers and watched as it kept clawing the air trying to escape. Brave little thing, it didn't duck back in its shell to hide. Jimmy lifted his bike with one hand and placed the turtle in the wire basket suspended from the handlebars. The little turtle struggled against the wire but couldn't get a purchase with its flippers.
Jimmy peddled on down the road to the Clark driveway. It was June and no one was at the house. The drive was lined with tall Gumbo Limbo trees that spread their massive branches out to form a tunnel. The only things that survived under that huge amount of shade were the small palmetto palms which filled in the space where an otherwise dried out lawn would have been.
Alfred Clark was big on the natural vegetation of the islands. Trees, bushes, plants, grasses, there was a bit of everything surrounding the large house he'd built long before Jimmy was born. He was a cool guy in Jimmy's estimation, always friendly. He had a shock of white hair and bushy sideburns which gave his wrinkled face some distinction. But his eyes were blue and blazed with an energy which belied his seventy some years of life.
As friends they often sat on the wide back porch and shared a pitcher of lemonade while they talked. Clark knew his parents, and everyone else for that matter. The island was small enough that most folks knew each other. Sometimes the man's daughters or son would come to visit, but otherwise he had a woman named Evelyn who lived with him and tended to his needs. She did the cooking and cleaning, rarely leaving the house except to run errands.
The old man was filled with stories about the ocean around them. Tales of famous pirates who had preyed on the shipping in the Caribbean were Jimmy's favorite. Spanish gold and silver was carried in great treasure ships that sailed along the coast on their way to the Old World. Black Caesar was the local favorite, an African born pirate that sailed around the islands over a hundred years ago. The Florida Keys were mostly uninhabited at the time except for a few natives so the pirates made their base on a small island near Key Largo to avoid the British and American warships.
"Scourge of the seas between here and Cuba," Clark said. "It's said Caesar had quite a bit of treasure buried around here on various islands. Big as a house and black as coal is the way they described him. The legend says he threw in his lot with old Blackbeard himself, biggest mistake he ever made. The story goes that Caesar was captured and hanged up in Virginia. But don't you believe a word of it, that isn't the truth."
It was one of Jimmy's favorite stories because of the ghosts. It seems Black Caesar had taken scores of prisoners, most of them women for his harem. The men were killed or impressed to work, but the children were left to run around by themselves. Many of those either escaped or starved to death, leaving their souls behind to haunt the islands.
Stories of buried treasure abounded in the Keys and Clark knew them all. From what he said you might think the ocean bottom was paved with precious metals. Pirates and hurricanes had wrecked hundreds of ships in those days long past.
Sitting on the porch he would wave his arms and tell Jimmy that a great fortune lay out in the waters beyond the end of his dock, it would only take a man of courage to go find it. It was the stuff of dreams for a boy his age... and most of it was true.
For years fishermen had pulled up objects in their nets... bronze cannon, pieces of silver. There were times after a great storm when Spanish coins washed up on the beaches, dredged by the currents from the bottom of the ocean. Florida was a land of great wealth, and not all of it lived in condos along Miami Beach.
Jimmy left the coral driveway and skirted the house, dodging the plants here and there until he came to the soft sand. He picked the turtle out of the basket and carried it down the boardwalk to the base of the dock. Most of Clark's yard was held together by a coral seawall built up from the water to a height of about four feet. But through the sea oats on one side there was a stretch of beach and Jimmy carried the turtle down there.
The little critter knew there was water here; its flippers were already going a mile a minute. Jimmy set the turtle down at the base of the wall and watched it scoot across the eight feet of sand and plunge straight into the water. The waves were minimal here, cut back by the scoop of the inlet formed by the breakwater. The turtle plowed ahead and Jimmy watched it disappear beneath the water.
"Well don't say thanks... ungrateful little brat."
And as if in response the turtle surfaced about twenty feet away and Jimmy could swear it looked at him before it sank beneath the water. That was pretty cool; he'd have to tell Clark when he returned next month from... where was it... New Hampshire?
There were only a few thousand people living here year round, most of them from somewhere else. The Martin sisters had come down from Georgia, they were permanent residents. It got mighty hot in July and August, and as if the temperature wasn't bad enough, people worried about hurricanes.
Many of the part-timers stayed away until Thanksgiving, betting that storms wouldn't happen that late in the year. Jimmy thought it was foolish, he'd never seen a bad storm his whole life, just a ton of rain and wind.
"The last big one was in '35," Clark told him. Jimmy had heard it all before, but he always listened politely. "Tore up the railroad, put it right out of business."
Jimmy had seen the old tracks; most of it was paved over with highway now. Route 1 ran all the way from Key West up to the tip of Maine. He thought of that every time he crossed the highway which he did just about every day. He collected license plates in his mind, wondering if anyone had driven the whole length of the road. One of these days he might do it himself, just for the fun of it.
He had been born up towards Miami at the hospital in Coral Gables, that's where his two aunts lived. They were really his father's aunts, nice ladies. Jimmy had a cousin or two up there and others scattered around the country. Hardly any of them came all the way down here to visit.
The Vaughn family, at least his daddy's piece of it, had been living in the town of Marathon on Vaca Key for eight years. That was long enough for most folks to think of them as locals. Jimmy had two older sisters, girls that his mom kept in line which wasn't hard down here.
It didn't take much of an imagination to realize this was an island, you could only go so far north or south before you hit water. The only way off the island was by bridge, and that had to be done in a car. But Marathon had everything a person might want and Jimmy rarely felt the need to go anywhere else.
There were only five other boys around Jimmy's age living here and they all went to school together. The junior high met in the same building as the high school kids, a grand total of forty-two students. The building was fairly new, only three years old. He remembered watching it get built knowing he would be a student there. But school was out for the summer and Jimmy was on his way to find out if his father had made the arrangements to get him that job.
It was hard to find work here, even for the adults. But for kids it was darn near impossible, unless you had something to trade for it or well placed relatives. His friend Marty had managed to get the bagger's job at the Marathon Market, but then his mom worked there in the office. Jimmy's father owned a garage with a gas station, but the only other employee he had was a part time mechanic.
Vaughn's Garage worked on lots of motors, cars and boats mostly. There were two gas pumps and a soda machine out front. If someone drove up the bell rang and his father would drop his wrench and step out to serve the gas. Billy only did the gas when Jimmy's father wasn't there.
Pump jockey would have been a perfect job for Jimmy, except he was too young. He could do the work, but his father would get in trouble. The little sign on the pump said you had to be sixteen, it was a state law. Occasionally he would grab a few tips for cleaning the windshield of a car, but not in the off season. Jimmy had decided that being thirteen sucked, he would be lucky to find work at all.
"Hal Becker might need a new boy on one of his boats," Jimmy's father had said the week after school let out
"What happened to Terry?" Jimmy asked.
"Gone north to see his grandmother."
"I could do it, it's the off season...but he probably wants one of the older boys," Jimmy said.
Terry was sixteen, Hal's son. The boy had grown up on one of the fishing boats his father owned. Jimmy had gone along with some of the day trippers on one of the big charter boats, tourists out trying to catch a fish just so they could say they did it. Hal ran sportsman charters too, sleek fast boats that could take a party of four all the way out in the Gulf to catch the big tuna or blues.
"I already talked to him; he said he'd think about it," Jimmy's father said.
"Which boat, do you know?"
"The Queen, which crews four guys so at least you wouldn't be alone. I think you could handle it."
The Marathon Queen was the biggest boat in the small fleet Hal owned. In season it could hold forty tourists, now they would be lucky if they got twenty. The boat left the dock in the marina down by the Marathon Motel at six-thirty in the morning and would return mid-afternoon. Jimmy was excited; he would love to have that job.
All thoughts of turtles vanished as Jimmy pedaled his bike up the county road towards Route 1 and his father's garage. There was sand in his shoe and Jimmy stopped to get rid of it before it rubbed a raw spot on his heel. Sand was a way of life around here, it got into everything.
Boys on the island wore nothing but shorts and tee shirts. They lived in the sun, cut their hair short and sported a tan year round. It was easy to spot a tourist since they stood out like a sore thumb. But they were also the basis for the economy down here and everyone was polite to those who came to the Keys from around the world.
It was five miles from the house to the garage, but first he had to pass by the airstrip. Every day Jimmy looked to see if there were any planes parked down by the tower, but nothing today. Even the National Airline Company didn't fly in here except during the tourist season.
Over the winter there would be a bunch of private planes landing on the airstrip and Jimmy's father would be a happier man because he sold aviation fuel. Jimmy had never been allowed to ride along on the tanker truck that delivered the fuel; his father said aviation gas was too volatile. But most planes flew on down to the Key West airport and they were left with the oddballs.
Just by chance Jimmy had seen the Cuban pilot the summer before, the one he wasn't supposed to tell anyone about. He'd hitched a ride with his father, tossing his bike in the back of the truck so he could pump up his tire. It was still dark as they drove past the airstrip, and Jimmy saw his father smile.
"Got us a customer, he must have come in last night."
Down by the unmanned tower left over from the war was a row of sheds big enough for some of the smaller aircraft. No one called them hangers; they were little more than falling down tobacco barns. But through the open end of the last one was the silhouette of a plane, one like Jimmy had never seen before.
"I've never seen a plane like that before... " Jimmy started to say.
"You haven't seen a thing, there is no plane," His father said.
"Oh?"
"Look, Jimmy. There are lots of things you don't understand, but if you tell anyone about that plane I'll get in trouble. That's all you need to know."
"Okay... but... why is it here?"
"Pilot needs fuel. I'll make three hundred bucks off him this morning and then he'll vanish."
"Vanish to... oh, I can't ask," Jimmy said.
"I'll be able to explain it to you someday, just not now."
Jimmy stayed at the garage while his father drove the tanker over to the airstrip. He was sitting on the tailgate when about half an hour later he heard an engine start up. The sun was just peeking over the horizon when Jimmy saw the plane roll out of the shed and turn up the runway.
It was a single engine plane, but one with great power. Jimmy heard the thunder of the engine as it shattered the stillness of dawn and watched as it began to hurtle down the strip and leap into the air. The plane had been painted with camouflage colors and designs, but unlike most planes it didn't climb very high or turn north towards the mainland. No, it banked to the left, south towards Cuba.
Anyone who lived in the Florida Keys knew that Cuba lay barely a hundred miles away to the south. Communism was just over the horizon and the military presence in Key West was only slightly reassuring. Jimmy knew the threat was real; Fidel Castro was discussed in his social studies class. What was this guy in the plane doing? It wasn't until later that summer when Jimmy found out.
He was out in back of the garage watching Billy tear down an outboard motor. They had a rack back there with a large open tank of water to test the engines. This one was 'shot to hell' Billy kept saying as he dismantled the manifold. One of the pistons had broken lose from the crankshaft and driven itself right through the head of the cylinder.
The bell went off, signaling someone had pulled up out front. Jimmy's father was inside; he would take care of it. But the lure of a few quarters for cleaning the windshield drew Jimmy in through the back door and across the garage bay. There he saw a large black Ford sedan sitting out front, and two men in suits were talking to his father.
Jimmy knew better than to interrupt, besides, no gas was being pumped. Instead he slipped over to the drinking fountain beside the bay door and stood there listening.
"You service the airstrip, Mr. Vaughn, we know he's been landing here at night," One of the men said.
"I don't know anything about that, we don't open until seven each morning," Jimmy's father said.
"The Naval station in Key West has seen him on radar three times in the past few months; we know he's topped up his tanks here. We're not accusing you of doing anything illegal, he would be just another customer to you. But the Cuban government has filed complaints with the State Department and the Miami office has to investigate."
"I'm sorry, I can't help you," Jimmy's father said.
"Well, here's my card, you can reach us at the Miami Bureau if you see anything. A tail number would be most helpful. I understand your position, Mr. Vaughn, I really do. But this damn fool is going to get himself killed down there and of course they will blame us. Have a good day, sir."
The men got back in the car and drove off heading back north. Jimmy was startled out of his reverie when his father walked back through the bay door.
"Jimmy... what are you doing, spying on me?"
"No... I saw the car and... "
"Come in the office a minute," His father said.
Jimmy sat in the big chair while his father sat on the corner of the desk.
"That was the FBI. They're looking for the man who flies that small plane, the Spitfire."
"What's a Spitfire?" Jimmy asked.
"It's an old World War II British fighter plane. Mr. Ramirez has rebuilt it so that he can fly down to Cuba. I respect his courage, he hates Castro. But he flies down there and drops homemade bombs on military targets, I think he's crazy."
"Oh wow," Jimmy said.
"Yeah... wow. I told them I don't know anything, but I'm sure you heard that. It's not good to lie to people like that, so we have to keep this our little secret."
Jimmy took a finger and made a cross on his chest. "Cross my heart and hope to die, I don't know anything about it."
"I guess Ramirez feels like he's doing something important for his people. I know you don't follow politics, but this guy Kennedy in the Senate says we have to keep an eye on Cuba. If he gets elected President this fall I imagine he will have to face down the Russians. Meantime you go about your business and forget you saw anything."
"Yes, Dad."
And he had kept the secret, probably the hardest thing Jimmy had ever done. He had images of Ramirez flying over Cuba, dropping bombs on tanks and trucks, the explosions fire-balling into the sky where the plane had been only seconds before. It was like a war movie playing in his head, better than anything Hollywood could produce, and he couldn't tell anyone.
The scrubby pines at the end of the airstrip gave way to the flat fields of sand along the highway and there was his father's garage. The bay doors were open, a car was up on the lift, but both his father and Billy were sitting in chairs under the front awning. Jimmy slid to a stop and looked at them.
"Guess nobody's working today," He said.
"Waiting for a part," Billy said. "You wanna drive up to Homestead and get it for us?"
"Sure, give me the keys to your bike," Jimmy laughed.
"Oh, that will be the day," Billy said with a shake of his head.
Billy owned an Indian motorcycle, the Chief model with a whopping 1300 cc engine. He kept it in pristine condition since they had stopped producing the cycles eight years ago. It was his baby, his most prized possession and no one could ride it.
Everyone knew Billy. The young man rode his cycle up and down the islands, slicked back hair flying in the breeze, aviator sunglasses covering his eyes. Jimmy was envious of the black leather jacket the man sometimes wore, it looked so cool. Billy had that Marlon Brando biker image, just as Jimmy remembered it from The Wild One movie.
Jimmy looked at his father and raised his eyebrows. The question was there and his father gave him a slow smile. "Hal says you be on time tomorrow morning, guess that means you're a sailor now."
Jimmy whooped with joy, he had a job. He knew what that meant because Terry had given him the whole run down on what it took.
"Pretty much you bait their hooks and keep them from falling overboard," Terry had said. "And you look them in the eye. If you even think they're gonna be sick you make sure they barf over the side, otherwise you'll be cleaning out the heads all damn day."
Jimmy had no worries about his own stomach; he'd been out on some pretty rough water a time or two. But cleaning out the toilets for someone else, that wouldn't be any fun at all. Charters like this for tourist fishing were called head boats or drift boats. They were large and slow with walkways and railings all around to keep the tourists from falling overboard... but it happened.
The captain would usually chose a spot, motor out there and cut the engine, allowing the boat to drift through a school of fish he could see on his underwater scope. Sometimes there would be three or four such boats in one area since the captains shared the information by radio. It was all bottom fishing, the point being to allow people to catch fish the easy way.
There was a great variety of finned creatures out there. Some were good eating, some would eat you, and others were just plain dangerous. The crew on a boat like this had to be everywhere, keeping an eye out when someone caught something. Stories abounded about the things people wanted to haul on board, and those who got hurt or killed because they did.
All fish gave a good fight when it came to being hauled up from the depths and none of them gave up easily. Jimmy's first catch off a boat happened when he went out with Hal several months after meeting his son Terry. A sand shark kept him busy for almost twenty minutes and damn near pulled him off the boat. But Terry shook his head and cut the line, a mad shark was not something you wanted to pull into a boat full of people.
Sharks might be dangerous but there were also poisonous fish out there. Lion fish, stone fish, scorpion fish and puffer fish, the big four of the dangerous creatures living in the ocean near the Keys. The poison in some of them could kill a man long before a charter boat could return to land and seek medical attention.
Jimmy hung around the garage for a while, trying to stay out of Billy's way. Without being asked he swept and mopped the bathrooms, knowing he owed his father big time for the job connection. But by eleven o'clock he was bored and rode his bike back past the airstrip and down another three miles to Skipper's Luncheonette where Gene worked. By this time of the morning the boy ought to be finished with the breakfast mess, and sure enough, he was sitting outside the kitchen door in the shade reading a book.
Gene was already fifteen, and yet Jimmy considered him a close friend, his best friend. In a place where so few kids lived, age wasn't an obstacle to friendship. The boy was two grades ahead of Jimmy but they had spent more time together than any other pair on the island. And the one reason they became so close was they both shared a love of books, although in many ways it was harder for Gene to read them.
"Hey, Skip J," Jimmy called out. The boy was Gene Watson Junior, but everyone called his father Skipper because of the restaurant. It stood to reason that the son would be called Skipper Junior, or Skip J. "What are you reading?"
Gene placed a soda straw in the crease of the book and closed it, handing it over to Jimmy. H.G.Wells the cover read, War of the Worlds. Jimmy had a limited experience with science fiction.
"Imagine Martians landing here," Gene said. "That would be so cool."
"Only thing we might have landing here are more of those Cubans," Jimmy said.
The Keys were a pretty big target for Cubans hoping to escape the Communist government in their country. About once a month some hapless boatload would wash ashore, but rarely in late summer when storms were so prevalent. The Monroe County Sheriff was kept busy hauling them up to Miami where the Immigration people took over.
"They die you know," Gene said.
"The Cubans?" Jimmy asked.
Gene laughed. "No, you dope, the Martian aliens. They get sick, our germs kill them off and that's why we survive the invasion. My Mom says some germs are good for us. Like after you get sick your body becomes stronger."
"Did you take that polio vaccine last year?" Jimmy asked.
"Sure, we all did. Martians don't have vaccines in their schools I bet."
"Gene, I don't think there are any Martians."
"Could be, you never know," Gene said. "You just haven't gotten past that fascination you have with pirates."
"At least they were real," Jimmy said.
But Gene was right; he was addicted to pirate stories thanks to Mr. Clark. That love affair had begun two years ago and was fed by the contents of the old man's library.
"Hey, I got a job on the Queen," Jimmy said.
"Good going, that'll keep you busy," Gene said. "When do you start?"
"In the morning. Guess that means our exploration is off for the moment."
Gene laughed. "Doesn't matter. Not like all that pirate gold is going anywhere."
"We don't even know if anything is down there, you don't believe it anyway," Jimmy said.
Gene held up his hands. "I'm not saying it is or isn't, one coin doesn't mean there is a huge treasure. Besides, you gotta wonder if Clark is just pulling your leg."
"Yeah, I got that, he does tend to make things bigger then they are."
"Exaggerate," Gene said.
"Exagg... a what?"
"Exaggerate, it means make things bigger than they really are. You need to study your vocabulary a little better. This book is full of exaggeration, but that was Wells' intention. He did it to scare people."
Jimmy sighed. "I need to read more, maybe I'll learn some bigger words."
"You will... once you get past the words pirate and treasure," Gene said.
"Funny man," Jimmy said.
"You have fun with those tourists, and be damn careful of those hooks."
"I will. You go back to your book and I hope the Martians don't win."
Gene smiled. "This is my third reading, they don't. Later, gator."
"After while, crocodile," Jimmy said, and he put his feet back up on the pedals.
Gene leaned his chair back up against the wall and his head went down towards the pages of his book. As Jimmy pulled away he saw the boy rub the patch over his left eye. Gene could only read for short periods of time with one eye, and yet he never allowed it to stop him.
Gene had been on the dock at the Marathon Motel when a tourist had snagged his hook in the boy's eye socket; he was only eight years old. The Coast Guard had flown him to the hospital but there was no saving his sight in that left eye. Gene had worn a patch over the empty socket ever since even though he had a glass eye at home.
It evoked sympathy from some, wisecracks from others. The latter bunch soon shut up once they met Gene's family. His father was an ex-Marine and his older brother was with the county sheriff's office. But Jimmy had only seen a potential friend wearing an eye patch; it had never come between them.
Jimmy rode home for lunch and to make sure he had the right gear for tomorrow. The crews wore cut off shorts and deck shoes since they would spend most of the day out in the sun. Like most boys in the Keys, Jimmy had a tan which kept him from burning. Salt and sun had bleached his face and hair, but he threw a bottle of sun tan lotion and a jar of zinc oxide in his bag. Spare shirts and his knife comprised the rest of his load, he would wear his sunglasses.
The ocean south of the island was reached by crossing the Vaca Key Bight and skirting the high spots in the Sombrero Reef. The lighthouse at the south end was established over a hundred years ago to warn shipping of the sharp ridges of the reef. These were all things the tourists enjoyed talking about on the long ride out to the drift area. Tomorrow they would be asking Jimmy all sorts of questions.
He took his sandwich out to the carport and settled down in a chair to read. Gene might like all that science fiction stuff, Jimmy was rereading Mark Twain, Huckleberry Finn this time. His mother came home from the market and Jimmy helped her carry the food into the house, which capped his afternoon.
His father was home by five and they grilled hamburgers out back while his Mom and sisters fussed in the house. Long ago Jimmy had become the outdoor cook while his father nursed a bottle of beer. As usual his father sat under the awning listening to their portable radio, waiting for the news to come on at six.
They often felt isolated down here in the islands; there was no television reception, only radio out of Key West and sometimes Miami. It was mid-June and the Florida Keys Keynoter newspaper was all about the hurricane season ahead. Jimmy's father tossed it down and picked up the Miami Herald news.
"Says here the Russians are hard at work in Cuba," Jimmy's father said. "You tell old Hal to watch out for those Russian subs when he's out tomorrow."
Jimmy laughed. "Yeah, sure... that old lady of a boat really looks like a military target."
"If they kidnap you be sure and bring me back some of that Russian vodka, I hear it's pretty good."
"Gross," Jimmy threw back. Not that he had ever tasted vodka, well, maybe once. At least it was supposed to be vodka in that orange juice, it smelled like lighter fluid. His father liked his hamburgers rare, his Mom and sisters well done. Jimmy didn't care one way or another; he always drowned his own in ketchup.
Baked beans and cole slaw, pickles and olives, tomatoes and cucumbers, their Friday dinner was always the same. They sat around the picnic table and talked about the past week's activities. His sister Anne was seventeen and she already had a boyfriend who lived up on Long Key and worked in the hardware store. Jenny was fifteen and was in Gene's classes at the high school, she wasn't allowed to date.
Most of the girls Jimmy saw at school didn't interest him, they were all Plain Jane's. None of the boys in his class looked at the girls in their classroom. All they talked about were the senior girls which made Jimmy laugh. Yeah, right, like anyone of his classmates was going to score with one of those.
Jimmy wasn't worried about the girl situation; his oldest sister hadn't been allowed to date until she turned sixteen. His mother had drawn that line in the sand for them and he didn't think it would be any different for him. It didn't matter, he had his own private games to play and that was getting better every day.
He knew the name for it, puberty, that thing which all boys achieved around his age. The personal exploration had been going on for some time until last Christmas he had achieved that first explosive moment. It was a revelation, and something he had shared with Gene at the first opportunity.
"Oh yeah, orgasm," Gene had said. "Wondered when you were going to get there."
Okay, Gene was older, more mature and certainly held a better knowledge on the subject. They had been standing in the dunes looking out at the beach and wondering if the recent storms had washed up any larger shells or pieces of coral. Stuff like that was worth money and a whole lot easier than collecting soda bottles for the return value.
"So... do you... I mean... ?" Jimmy's voice trailed off, he wasn't sure how to ask.
"Do I jerk off? Oh hell yeah," Gene said. "All boys do it, I'm sure you do it. It's natural as rain." Then Gene started laughing. "I suppose you want to see me do it, don't you?"
"Uh... " Jimmy said. He couldn't ask, but he was curious.
"Okay, let's do it together," Gene said. "You might learn something, but I think most guys do it the same. Not like you can ask your father or Billy."
"Fuck no," Jimmy said. "So... where can we do it?"
"I'm not about to get sand in my butt crack; let's go down to the old dock behind McNeil's place."
They usually went hunting for stone crabs down at McNeil's, but today they rode their bikes behind the deserted seafood plant to the rundown dock. No one came back here, at least not this time of year. They plopped down on the planks and looked across the bay at the boatyard.
"If somebody turns their binoculars on us they'll sure get a surprise today," Gene said. "Okay, show me what you're workin with."
Jimmy wiggled out of his shorts and like most boys down in the Keys he wore no underwear.
"Damn fine, you even got some hairs," Gene said.
Jimmy was already erect. Of course, he had been since Gene suggested they do this. Gene pulled own his shorts and Jimmy all but freaked out. The equipment was large as a man's, easily twice as big as what he had between his own legs.
"Damn, that's huge," Jimmy said.
Gene laughed. "Hell, boy... it ain't even hard yet."
Jimmy learned a lot about masturbation that day. His pop gun shot a few drops while Gene's cannon flooded his stomach. This is what he had to look forward to, and getting there would be lots of fun. And over the next few months they found time to jerk off together as part of the weekend ritual. Gene was always encouraging; commenting on the size of the load Jimmy delivered which seemed to get bigger every week.
Now he would be off for the day on the Marathon Queen and miss the chance to share those moments with Gene. It was something they rarely talked about, even when they started doing it to one another. Gene's hand was experienced, Jimmy just enjoyed feeling the bulk in his hand and the pleasure he could give his friend.
Neither of them thought of it as queer, it was just there and something they could do. But Jimmy thought about Gene's cock when he jerked off at home. It was the only sexual experience he'd ever had, and some day his would fire off like a pirate's cannon... some day soon he hoped.
Jimmy showered after dinner and took care of business. As always he counted the hairs above his cock, amazed at how fast they were multiplying. He felt a certain glory in the expression of maturity his body was displaying, and the orgasms were getting stronger.
He went to bed early that night, knowing he had to be up at five. Jimmy was planning to be on the dock before six, even if Hal took the boat out at six-thirty. The weather forecast for tomorrow was clear and sunny with calm seas, a great way to begin.
His father gave him a shake around five in the morning and Jimmy was out of bed in a flash. The house was quiet as he dressed and pulled on his sneakers. Out in the kitchen his father was making coffee.
"Are you planning to eat before you go?"
"Maybe some cereal... "
"Naw, you need a big breakfast. Grab your gear and I'll drive you in, we'll have breakfast at the motel," His father said.
Jimmy loaded his bike and his bag in the truck while his father filled the thermos with the freshly brewed coffee. They had done this before, but only on special occasions. Maybe today was kinda special. They sat up at the counter in the restaurant and Noreen didn't even ask. A tall glass of milk for Jimmy and a coffee for his father.
"You're going to have a long day and one of Hal's sandwiches just won't be enough. Drink lots of water while you're out there, okay?"
"Thanks, Dad," Jimmy said.
"You drop by the garage when you're done, let me know if you see any of those subs."
Jimmy grinned as Noreen slid a plate full of scrambled eggs and pancakes in front of them. The meal filled him up and Jimmy thanked his father before he wheeled his bike down behind the motel and locked it to the railing by the dock. He could see the lights on in the cabin of the boat. It was still pretty dark outside but there was already a group of men and their families gathering out in the parking lot.
Hal was in the stern locker pulling cushions out and stacking them on the deck.
"Good Morning, Captain," Jimmy said.
"Jimmy... .good to see you, I could use some help," Hal said.
In the market or at the garage it was Hal, but on his boat it was always Captain, especially if there were any tourist ears around. The Marathon Queen had been afloat for thirty years, built solid she would probably last another thirty. Hal had been a boy when she first docked in Marathon after her long voyage from the boat yard in Charleston, South Carolina.
They spread the cushions around in the cabin for the men and women to sit on. Hal had set an age limit of twelve for any customers, he didn't need any small kids going over the side and running up his insurance rates. Today there would be twenty-two adults and a few teenagers on board.
"Terry showed you the bait locker last time out, you and Nelson get to put out the bait after we get where we're going. He'll show you how to stack the cups. Pretty smooth out there today so I'm going out to Sombrero Deep, ought to be some nice schools over there.
"I have four cases of drinks on ice and three dozen sandwiches in the galley. Just make sure you don't try and feed anyone who looks green. I'll try and keep the boat headed into the wind so the bad ones can barf over the stern, always a few."
"Yes, sir," Jimmy said.
"Relax, have fun, but keep your eyes on the water when they start reeling them in. Lots of lion fish out there this summer, that damn reef is infested again," Hal said. He looked at his watch and up the dock towards the parking lot. They had three more crew members to board in the next ten minutes before the tourists arrived.
Nelson, Terry and John arrived together; Jimmy had seen them drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes in the restaurant. Hal didn't allow any smoking on his boat, not with all the fuel they carried. Nelson slapped hands with Jimmy and the other two gave him a mock salute. The herd of tourists was right behind them.
Hal fired up the engines and the deep roar of the diesel turbines rumbled in the background as the paying customers came on board. John had gone about his duties, dropping into the engine space to check out the bilge pumps. Terry was going through the stacks of fishing rods and sorting them out. That left Nelson and Jimmy to handle the tourists.
Nelson was a unique man, born in the Nassau Islands some thirty years ago, he'd lived up in Louisiana Bayou country most of his life. He'd made his way south looking for work and Hal had hired him on the spot because of his experience. He had a slow pleasant voice, one that charmed the tourists. The man always wore a bandana tied around his head giving him that pirate look but it was to keep his hair from frizzing out in the salt air. His eyes missed nothing; no one would get hurt on his watch and for that Jimmy was thankful.
Once the tourists were settled inside the cabin Jimmy made his way to the spacious stern deck and opened the bait cooler. Boxes of frozen mullet had been placed in there the night before and were just about thawed by now. They would have to separate the mullet and place the small bait fish in cups for distribution. A nice sized tidbit to slide on a hook, the sight of a mullet was enticing to most of the ravenous fish they were after.
Hal appeared in the cabin and gave the lifesaving speech. Life vests were racked in cabinets on the outside of the cabin walls, seat cushions floated as well. Heads were counted and everyone found present, they could head out. Nelson and Jimmy stepped forward and were introduced; they were in charge of those doing the fishing.
Hal returned to the bridge as Terry and John cast off. The engines took on a higher pitch and the boat pulled away from the dock. Most of the tourists abandoned the cabin and came out on deck to see the sunrise. One man approached Nelson and asked him where he might smoke on the boat. Nelson gave him a big old smile and repeated his favorite line.
"The Captain say any man can smoke on the other side of the stern railing." The man looked at the back of the boat. The only thing on the other side of that railing was the wake they were creating. Nelson shook his head and pointed at the No Smoking signs.
Twenty minutes later they hit the outer buoy and Jimmy joined Nelson in separating bait as the boat turned southwest. With the glare of the sun almost behind them the unmanned lighthouse down on Sombrero Reef could be seen flashing its warning to the surrounding area.
Not too far from that manmade device, and down on the ocean floor amid the coral and sea grasses, a small green turtle made its way south. It had left the inlet near the Bight where Jimmy had released it and instinctively pushed against the incoming current until it reached the open ocean.
On its way, the little turtle paused to surface and catch it's breath before diving back down in the shallow waters. Here it would find an abundance of food and yet it had to seek refuge in the reef from predators. Even the occasional trip to the surface was risky, that's where it had been snatched from the water only days before.
The turtle's brain wasn't very complicated and instinct played a greater role in its survival. It had no knowledge of how it had been caught by a human and then returned to the sea by another. Diving once again the turtle drove itself forward with powerful motions of its flippers. It went back to feeding and hardly noticed the small objects it dislodged as it swam.
The odd little shapes embedded in the coral lay amidst the remaining rotten timbers of a ship's hull. The wreckage was hardly noticeable these days; the coral and assorted plant life had intruded over most of it. Gone were the tall wooden masts that had driven the ship for so many leagues until it had smashed upon the reef and torn out its bottom.
But since the wreck there had been many storms that scoured the area, only down here in the safe embrace of the reef had the remains been sheltered from the blast. A mere fifty feet of water covered the site, but it might as well have been three hundred. The sharp edges of the reef allowed no safe approach to this final resting place.
The turtle grazed on the abundance of grasses completely unaware of what lay in the sand around it. Gold and silver bars destined for the coffers of the Spanish King had settled into the sandy bottom after the wooden chests had rotted through. A hundred years ago there might have been some signs left by the occupants of this small ship, but not now. Time and tides had carried it all away, leaving only the precious cargo behind, lost to the sight of man.
The skeletal remains of the crew had long since been scattered. No one was left to tell of the fabulous wealth that lay within sight of land. This was one of the ships Clark had spoken about, slammed into the reef by a tremendous storm. This was one the pirates had missed, but there were others out there.
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