The afternoon heat under the dinghy was horrendous. Sand fleas were eating away at my ankles and arms. It was rough not being able to move while the Bahamians were sitting on top of me. A half-inch of hand-hewn planking was all that separated us. The urge to rise up, grab the rum bottle, and take a big swig was almost unbearable. The bottle began to take on a lifelike quality, taunting, extolling me for cowardliness and weakness. The Bahamians left just before I lost the mind game.
The rest of the afternoon dragged by with a slowness only the paralyzed can truly know. At least in my case there would be an end to my discomfort, for them there is no end. The afternoon only gets longer.
The heat began to cool as the sun set. Thinking it safe, I eased from under the dinghy, looking carefully for any sign of movement. Nothing stirred in the coming twilight, and I hoped there was no moon.
Dragging the small boat into the water took little effort. Once afloat, I quietly pushed it ahead of me, swimming silently. When far enough away from the beach to go unnoticed, I climbed aboard. Unleashing the oars, I started the long pull to B.J.'s house on Lynard Cay.
The motion of the waves picked up. They came across the bar and rolled heavily into the Bight of Old Robinson. Rowing became a tiring and difficult job.
The distance across the opening to the lee of Coole Cay was about a mile and a half. Once across, total exhaustion set in on me. Lying in the bottom of the dinghy for rest, my back was in knots, my arms and shoulders felt as if they weighed a ton. My hands were cramped around the oars and would not open. My fingers seemed to belong to someone else and had turned a strange bluish-white.
Slowly the muscles relaxed and the hands came away from the oar handles. There were two more miles to row, but now it would be easy going, as there were no more openings directly to sea.
I lay for a while on my back in the bottom of the boat looking up at the sky. The night had weight to it, warm and saturated with ocean air. There was no moon, and the stars were brilliant. As the dinghy turned slowly round and round on its own, the sky seemed to be revolving rather than me. Polaris was visible at its permanent spot with Cassiopeia nearby. All of the familiar constellations appeared, Auriga, Capella, Taurus, Canis Major, Orion, and Pleiades, forming a kaleidoscope of permanence.
A flood of weariness came in dark waves. For an instant I felt alone and desperate. A gray cotton which was neither fog nor cloud suddenly covered my eyes. A net of moisture seemed to hang in the air. Icy pinpricks stung my face that was neither rain nor sweat or salt spray. They scared me.
Later I woke and felt rested. The surf pounded on the ocean side of the cays. Waves were breaking at Lynard Cay, throwing showers of spray high into the air like handfuls of diamonds being tossed by an unknown giant. The high surf indicated a storm far out in the Atlantic sending big swells rolling onto the outer cays of Abaco.
B.J.'s house was situated on the highest point of Lynyard Cay. Silhouetted against the night sky, it seemed a long way off. The water around the dinghy was alive with tiny creatures giving off a phosphorus glow. With each stroke of the oar blades, the water seemed as if it would burst into flames, leaving long streams of fire swirling away behind, an eerie, though beautiful sight to a lonely sailor.
There was a narrow sand beach at the bottom of the knoll below B.J.'s house. Pulling the dinghy up across the dunes, I hid it behind palmetto bushes. Sitting for a moment in the damp sand, leaning against the boat, the stars all of a sudden seemed drained of light so that I could not see the constellations. A weakness washed over me, my heart pounded, and the thought of death frightened me.
The climb up to the house was made with sheer will power. Only the thought of a bed and endless rest got me there. The key was where Dave promised, and I slipped quietly inside into the darkness.
The layout of the house was familiar, as I had visited here twice before, staying for a week at a time. It was a plain, comfortable home, designed strong against the hurricane winds. It afforded good ventilation, but with little glass, that kept it dark and cool. There was a single bedroom and, feeling my way along in the dark, I slid into the bed and was asleep in an instant.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The aroma of coffee woke me. Opening my eyes to bright sunlight, a cool breeze blew across the bed. For a moment I could not figure out where I was or why. Then everything came rushing back. Lynn and Rene Renoir, Miami, Bimini, Nassau, the Sun Dog, Dave Billingsly, swimming, the dinghy, and rowing. The smell of coffee came to me, again. My senses must be playing games.
She walked through the door of the bedroom carrying a tray as if we'd been lovers the night before. A young woman with coal black hair and deep green eyes that sparkled with life. Her skin was tanned and blended with the lose strands of hair that shaded from mahogany to gold in the sunlight. She was short, barely five feet, and her smile showed even, white teeth.
"My name is Kathy. I arrived early this morning. You were sleeping the sleep of the dead."
"Do we know each other?"
"No, Mr. Leicester, we do not." She sat the tray on the bed. "This house belongs to my brother-in-law. He allows me to use it. They don't come down much, my sister hates the isolation."
"How do you know my name?"
"Dave Billingsly is a friend of mine. He knew that I was going to be here for the next month, and he left a letter for me at the ferry dock in Marsh Harbor explaining the situation."
"That’s wonderful."
"Have some coffee, then we'll get you cleaned up. You smell like a goat and those cuts need attention. There is a first aid kit here. Call me when you get out of the shower."
She disappeared through the bedroom door. She wore white shorts and a halter-top. The shifting movement of the soft cloth and the way she carried herself gave off an air of athleticism and confidence.
Feeling weak and sore, I thought about yesterday. I hoped the Snowpowder boys wouldn't find the dinghy missing back at Family Beach, or dig up my grave and find it empty. Running fingers through matted hair, I found a huge lump that was unfamiliar. It's been a rough few days.
The coffee helped. Swinging my feet off the bed, I felt pain radiate throughout my legs. The cuts were bad. Coral injuries have a tendency to heal slowly and almost always get infected.
Limping to the shower, I turned the faucets wide open. The stinging hot water felt like something sent from heaven, soothing and loosening sore muscles. I stood for long, blank minutes enjoying the cleansing effects, then suddenly realizing it was not the grime from sand and sea, but the face of Rene Renoir and the closeness of my own death that I was trying to wash away.
Stepping out of the shower, Kathy stood there with a towel. Silent for a moment, she unsettled me by her stare as it moved from the top of my head toward my face and along the line of my jaw with a concentration I could feel physically like the caress of a summer breeze. Reaching my feet, her eyes cut back to mine and she threw her head to the side and laughed. It was a soft, low, breathless sound. Her eyes were half-closed in the mocking, conscious triumph of having embarrassed me. She turned and walked away, her black hair swaying with the wide circular movement of her stride.
Wrapping in a towel, I gingerly hobbled to the bedroom, hoping to fit into some of B.J.'s clothes. A pair of his pants proved tight, but would do. Kathy returned with bandages and antiseptic.
"Put your feet in my lap, this is going to burn."
She poured methylate into the cuts. It felt like fire, but it was necessary. Sweat beaded on my forehead.