“Can’t we go a little faster?” Jill pleaded. “The breeze would help.”
“No wake, honey, just a little longer,” Fred replied, just loud enough to be heard above the sound of a droning outboard.
Access to the Gulf of Mexico sounded like a dream come true, a life of leisure on the water. The reality was quite different, at least in summer. The Sunshine State drove eighty percent of coastal residents northward to second homes from May through October. For those left behind, it was a pleasant period of reduced traffic both on and off the water. But it also accompanied a blistering, incendiary attack from above. Flaming, relentless and intense, the sun was hard to handle during most of the day and was the catalyst for burgeoning dermatology businesses across the South.
But on open water, bouncing and cruising through an evaporative wind, relief and freedom were the remedy to Florida’s version of cabin fever. And, Jill reminded herself, it was far better than the icy needles of the subzero equivalent up north.
“Get under the Bimini and relax,” Fred said, “a few more minutes.” He glanced at the tachometer and throttled up slightly.
A disturbance in the water ahead grabbed Fred’s attention. Manatees frequented the canal occasionally and required a wide berth. They were notoriously slow, dumb and curious. It was a combination that resulted in injuries that left a roadmap of white scars across their bulky gray bodies.
But this was no Manatee. An orange curiously popped to the surface, spun and exploded, then moments later briefly submerged, bobbed and scattered fragments of peel across the water. On shore, a curly-headed blonde teen held another orange, pausing for Fred and Jill to pass, while a dark haired, grinning friend shouldered a low caliber rifle. Fred motioned for the orange thrower to toss him a target fruit, caught it one-handed, then stood, turned and lobbed it into the canal behind the boat. The teens laughed and continued their questionable game.
The sun’s glare on the approaching harbor glinted like diamonds off the slight chop, bleaching Jill’s retinas like tiny flashbulbs at a dark party. It was so sparkling and pretty, but the bay offered no refreshment. Ninety-two degree saline loaded with tannins. A plunge turns your swimsuit brown and your skin crusty.
Nearing the junction of two intersecting waterways, Fred mopped flop sweat from his brow with a towel and adjusted course slightly to compensate for the competing currents. A dolphin surfaced and rolled off the starboard side, and then another joined in.
“Odd time for them to be out,” muttered Fred.
Beyond a darkly stained seawall to port was a home that made Jill giggle. A spectacular collection of highly painted gnomes, mermaids, fishing children and sea creatures spanned the width and depth of the entire property. An inevitable multi-directional signpost pointed out miles to Key West, New York and a dozen other locations of significance to the owners. Fun stuff, but nothing says new-to-Florida like a manatee or seahorse mailbox.
“Look, Fred. GSD!” Jill laughed.
“Huh, what?” Fred responded from his stupor.
“Garden Statuary Disorder!” said Jill, and she laughed again.
A few houses further and Jill stiffened, ducking under cover of the Bimini at the back of the pontoon. It was Mary’s house. Mary was a local celebrity of sorts. She was a self proclaimed psychic, running a business out of her home. The kind of thing realtors don’t mention to prospective neighbors. She wore bright red lipstick in a clown-like swath around her skinny lips. Her fingernails generally matched. It was comical and sad.
Mary was less clairvoyant than nosy. Her four little dogs were an excuse to frequently leave the house and mind her neighbors’ business. The pets went out hourly or whenever someone appeared outside. She often emerged into the night with her probing flashlight, scanning the canal “looking for animals.” Interestingly, the sweeping beam of light frequently played across the windows and patios of homes across the water like a klieg light in a prison yard. Mary was an uninvited neighborhood watch.
For over two years, Fred and Jill could not make the journey down the canal without Mary appearing at water’s edge with a series of probing questions.
“Where you goin’?” she’d begin in a piercing, raspy strafing assault on the senses. Sound carried over water. There was no need to shout.
They had learned, short of telling Mary to mind her own business, that there was no use trying to be evasive. A vague response resulted in a more demanding line of questioning. They tried so hard not to be rude.
So it was to Jill’s great relief that Mary was nowhere to be seen.
Jill brought Fred a cold can of Diet Coke from the cooler. It immediately began to condense and drip. She wrapped it in a paper towel and set it in a drink holder at the captain’s chair. She brought her own beverage up front and lay facing forward on a bench at the front of the pontoon’s deck. The heat didn’t bother her quite as much as it did Fred, but the intensity was breathtaking.
Her visor blocked the sun from above, and sunglasses diminished glare reflected from the water. They were almost to the harbor when she saw a hovering vision approaching directly ahead.
“Fred, are you seeing this?” she asked.
“What? Yeah, got it.” he said, shoulders sinking.
Fred reduced speed and then shifted to neutral. There are no brakes on boats. Momentum kept them drifting forward toward a silhouette on the water, a human figure, like the maidenhead on a sailing ship, white and ghostly, with brightly painted features.
There on a paddleboard in a completely transparent, reflective white dress, stood a woman, like the bride of Poseidon astride the backs of dolphins, grinning as she floated up next to the boat. The image of an eighty-nine year old, clearly sporting a tiny fluorescent pink bikini on her sagging, wrinkled flesh, was more information than Fred cared to absorb. He stood and turned away.
“Not again,” groaned Jill, bowing her head.
“Where you goin!?” shouted Mary.