Wood's Harbor by Steven Becker Read Free Book Online Page A

him. 
    He went forward, opened the hatch where the anchor was stored, and grinned at the Fortress anchor in the hold. The rest of the boat had been stripped down by the chop shop, even life jackets and flares, the rudimentary safety equipment the Coast Guard required had been removed. Finding an anchor at all was a stroke of luck, and especially the Fortress; the lightweight aluminum anchor would bury in the mud, unlike the grapnels many Keys boats used for anchors. The two empty gas cans were the only other objects he had to work with. He started forming a plan. 
    “Hey. Wake up!” he called to Trufante, whose head rolled to the side. 
    He turned a bloodshot eye to Mac. “Yo.”
    “In the water,” Mac ordered. 
    “In that crap?” Trufante responded slowly and looked over the side. 
    Mac glared back and waited while Trufante slowly gained his feet and stripped off his shirt. “Take the empty cans with you.”
    Trufante leapt in the water, a can in each hand. Mac directed him to set one under each side, just behind the V shaped bow where the hull flattened out. The boat would need to come off backwards and he wanted the lift from the tanks to break the suction of the mud. He came close to jumping in to help, but Trufante finally managed to wrestle the buoyant tanks under the boat. Their effect was unnoticeable.
    The Cajun looked back up at him, panting from the exertion. “Ain’t doin’ squat.”
    Mac ignored him and went forward to the anchor compartment where he lifted the lightweight anchor from the hold and set the ten feet of chain gently on the deck. 
    “Now swim this out past the stern.” 
    He started tossing line towards Trufante who waded towards him and took the anchor. The lanky figure lunged through the mud in a kind of half-swim half-walk. He looked like he was tiptoeing, fighting hard to escape the embrace of the muck. With a standard anchor, he would have sunk, but with the lightweight Fortress over his shoulder he moved past the boat. Mac paid out the line until it reached the bitter end and called for Trufante to drop the anchor. It disappeared into the muck and he secured the line to a cleat while Trufante swam back to the boat. Mac waited until he was back aboard before he started pulling on the rope in quick, hard jerks to set the flukes. The line came tight and, satisfied it was secure, he called for Trufante. The two men strained to pull the boat free from the grasp of the mud. With all they had, they heaved on the line, but to no avail. Mac had hoped the empty gas tanks would allow the boat to slide and their buoyancy would help break the suction but the hull remained glued to the bottom. 
    “You got to check the cans again. Make sure they aren’t stuck too.”
    Trufante looked done, but he needed him in the water. 
    “Do this and I’ll let you sleep on the way back.”
    Mac watched as Trufante breathed in several breaths and then disappeared into the dark water. He made several trips down before he climbed back aboard. “Should be good now.”
    Mac went to the helm and pushed the button to raise the engines. He wanted to make sure they were clear of the water. He thought about using their power to help pull them off, but decided against it. Pulling by hand, although harder, let him feel their progress. One burst from the engines could grind them deeper into the mud - deep enough that even the tide couldn’t help.
    Both men were standing in the cockpit with the line in their hands. 
    “Pull,” Mac called out, and their muscles stained as they struggled to gain line. They tried twice more without bringing in even an inch. What they needed was mechanical advantage and Mac looked around the bare boat for anything that could help. A block and tackle were the tools he needed, but the boat didn’t even have a windlass for the anchor. He looked at the engines, the stainless steel blades of the propellers glistening in the sun, and had an idea. 
    He took the line from the cleat