I liked that.
But he wasn’t an easy man to get along with, as I was learning.
“You could’ve cut off five, maybe ten minutes if you’d pointed us a few more degrees south. Get sloppy like that in an F-14, you could end up in Austin instead of Boston-if the pencil pushers hadn’t retired that beautiful machine.”
Wilson hadn’t spoken for half an hour. I thought he was still asleep.
I continued paddling, the island now so close I could smell the salt pan musk of cactus and sea oats. “I played it safe. We’re only a couple hundred yards north of where you told me to land.”
“A quarter mile, is more like it. But that’s okay. That must be the cabin-do you see it?” As he stretched, he used his paddle to point at a shadowed geometric set back from the water. Its tin roof was ivory, the windows glazed. “We can lay in close to shore and no one will see us take our gear inside.”
He was concerned for a reason. A few hundred yards down the beach, the bonfire was encircled by a cluster of men and women, their shadows huge. Some were dancing; others sat shoulder to shoulder, their faces golden masks.
I said, “Are you sure you want to risk landing where there’re so many people?”
“I told you before, I don’t think the public’ll recognize me. And if they do? Well… it’s better I find out now.” He tilted his head for a moment. “Why the hell are they doing that, you think? Banging away at this hour?”
The beach people were pounding drums… tin cans… plastic buckets, too, judging from the noise. They maintained a steady, low-resonance rhythm that, for a while, I’d mistaken for the rumble of ocean waves. It was 5:45 a.m. Sunrise was in an hour.
I said, “It’s called a ‘drum circle.’ A fad. People who normally wouldn’t give each other the time of day meet to play drums, usually on a beach around sunset. But this time of morning? It’s weird.” I paused, surprised by a sudden word association. Tomlinson’s face had jumped into my mind. “This friend of yours,” I said slowly, “how long have you known him?”
In the chiding manner of a football coach, Wilson said, “You’re an expert navigator who ignores shortcuts and a marine biologist who makes assumptions. I’m worried about you. Those are unexpected flaws in a man of your accomplishments.”
“Huh?”
“You made an assumption, Dr. Ford. When I said we were meeting a friend, you assumed it was my friend.”
He began to snub his backpack, getting ready to land, communicating the obvious through his aloof silence. It was worse than him saying it.
You assumed wrong.
Even though he was down the beach, I recognized Tomlinson’s scarecrow dancing as he juked his way to the center of the circle and took a seat on a log-Ray Bolger from The Wizard of Oz. He was barefoot, shirtless, wearing a pirate’s bandanna. The muscle cordage of his arms moved at languid angles as he slapped at an ebony drum angled between his knees.
A couple dozen people danced free-form around the fire to the beat of tambourines, cowbells, congas, Jamaican steel drums, water bottles, a surfboard, beer bottles, and at least one frying pan.
The former president seemed fascinated. “The reason they’re dressed like that… it’s because of Halloween?”
I said, “They’re Tomlinson’s friends, so I don’t think it would matter.”
Some wore full body paint: jaguars with breasts for eyes, or flowers, rainbow streaks, and bizarre tribal designs. A few were naked, others wore shorts and bikini tops. Those who weren’t painted wore costumes. It was a popular year for angels, demons, and Gilligan’s Island.
“I expected the place to be deserted. When he told me about Cayo Costa, I got the impression it hadn’t changed much in the last forty years. That it was still unpopulated.”
It was Tomlinson who’d also told the former president that he had friends who owned a cabin, that the cabin was empty, and where the keys were hidden.
“This isn’t typical. Except for weekends, Cayo Costa’s quiet.” Because Wilson had said still unpopulated, I thought about it for a moment. “You’ve been on this island before, sir?”
We were carrying our bags from the canoe to the cabin. He slowed. “A long time ago. Our first trip together, Wray and me. I’d graduated from the Academy the previous spring. We took the train from Maryland to Tampa, borrowed a buddy’s car, and drove to the Naval air base in Key West. Sanibel was on the way, so we spent a couple nights on the islands. We honeymooned on Useppa, the Barron Collier Room.”
That explained why he’d attended a party there.
It was too dark in the shadows to read his watch, but he glanced at it, anyway. “It was exactly forty-one years ago to the day that Wray and I came ashore here. Cayo Costa Island… only, back then, I’m certain it was called ‘La Costa.’ Palm trees and sand; not a human soul for miles. Pretty exciting for two hick kids just starting out. It was forty-one years ago, and”-he looked at his watch again-“forty-one years, plus… plus about an hour, that I… that we…” He caught himself; his pace quickened-getting too personal.
I let him move ahead. He was about to tell me that something important had occurred on this island between him and his late wife. They’d made a sunrise visit, probably shelling or picnicking. Today, November 1st, was their fortieth wedding anniversary, he’d told Agent Wren. Perhaps Wilson had chosen the same date, a year earlier, to propose. Here. On this island.
While he waited on the porch, I pushed the door open, then used my flashlight to hunt for lanterns and matches. “Did you tell Tomlinson you’d be arriving this morning?” I was as uncomfortable discussing personal matters as the former president. I was also anticipating being pissed off at Tomlinson for not having the cabin ready. I saw no food, no ice, and the generator wasn’t running. Typical.
But I was premature.
Wilson said, “No, he’ll be surprised. When he told me he knew of a secluded place, that it was available, I told him if I did show up it would be around the first of the month. He said his sailboat’s anchored somewhere nearby. We’d been discussing Zen meditation. I suggested that if things worked out, maybe we could go for a cruise.”
I’d seen Tomlinson’s old Morgan, No Mas, anchored off the beach, its hull pale as a mushroom in the moonlight, bow pointing water light into the tide.
“A cruise,” I said. “Meaning his boat’s ready, provisioned with food and supplies.”
“I assume so.”
“You told me to do the same thing. Have my truck ready.”
Wilson placed his duffel bag on a table as I filled a Coleman lantern with fuel. “It’s good to have options. We may need your truck before we’re done.”
“Did you tell him to bring a passport and block out a week or two, just in case?”
The president said, “Tomlinson doesn’t strike me as the type who keeps a calendar.”
“I think you know what I’m getting at, sir. You said you knew things about Tomlinson that would surprise me. Did you offer him the same deal you offered me?”
Wilson was unpacking a shaving kit, a towel, a photograph in a brass frame, positioning them neatly. He didn’t reply.
I struck a match. The lantern hissed, filling the room with stark light. “Am I allowed to read between the lines, Mr. President? Or maybe it would be easier if you just came out and told me what’s going on.”
“You’re supposed to call me ‘Sam.’ A slip like that with people around could cause problems.”
“Sorry, Sam. We’re taking Tomlinson’s boat, aren’t we? That’s not hard to figure out. But where? Tampa? Key West? You mentioned both. Is this some kind of farewell, sentimental journey? If it is, I understand. I’ll stick with you. But why involve Tomlinson?”
“You’re a perceptive man, Ford. I would like to revisit some places important to my wife and me. But I don’t have time. In fact, if we could press on right now”-he looked at the exposed beach, the falling water, his expression impatient-“I’d say let’s get going. Wray and I loved this part of Florida. It’s true. We had a lot of fun here. But you say the word ‘sentimental’ like it’s sweet. There is nothing sweet about what I intend to do”-he looked at me sharply-“or what I intend to ask you to do.”