Season THREE – Episode 16– “Tin Can Alley of Sharks”
Spirits were strained as Sally, Ellie, and Hazel watched William—no longer inflated with life—begin to sink. Returning to the marina at Sand Point Beach with a corpse in the bow of the Grady-White Canyon 456 center console was not an option.
After a tense debate among the trio, it was agreed to retreat across choppy waters and hit the reset button on the mainland. Time to think—no more distractions. Time to regroup—pull the team together. They were running in a “Tin Can Alley of Sharks”—time to find their rogue submarine.
With Ellie at the helm and the Lowrance HDS Pro 16 navigation unit set on night mode, Sally offered these final words, “William, you were part of something much bigger than all of us. And you have my word that we will see this mission to its end, along with the miserable likes of Too-Tall and Shorty-Short. Their tournament is going to come to a screeching halt the next chance we get.”
“Let’s go Ell. Best if we can make the marina before sunrise.”
And with that—the women continued east—following the breadcrumbs recorded by the Global Positioning System. Traveling at speeds more than 50-mph they cut through a horizon that was darker than the inside of a cow. Ellie had dropped a pin on the touchscreen shortly after takeoff. It was eight miles back to the original Caye where they had first hidden with William. From there is another five miles to the mainland.
Sally and Hazel stood at opposite sides of the T-Top—hanging onto the aluminum rails—their knees working like shocks—absorbing the clutter of gamey seas growing with intensity.
“How far out Ell?” Hazel questioned, turning her chin down and away from the wind.
“I’m tracking 7.8 miles at 47 miles an hour and I buried the trim tabs to push the bow down in these waves. The wind has to be cranking 30 knots based on this roll.” Ellie responded.
“This rough water has to have something to do with the tide.”
And it certainly did—Within a short distance of 178 yards, at 47 miles an hour, the women soon found out what effect a lowering tide could have on forward motion.
Ellie’s head was so close to the GPS unit, following the travel line on the screen, her forehead was the first thing to contact the dash of the console when the FOUR Yamaha outboard motors collectively found bottom. Next were her ribs—each finding their way top to bottom along the stainless-steel steering wheel.
Sally held tight to the T-Top rail, but her right arm felt as though it had been jerked from its socket. Hazel took the brunt of the forced SLOW-DOWN when her left hand lost its grip, and she was propelled into the bow like a Yukon Gold coming out of a spud gun.
Bogged down in sand—mud—muck… This unpredicted loss of water depth brought silence to their surroundings. The boat was beached and the waves were launching spray over the forward part of the hull.
“You guys all right?” Sally quizzed, searching for her backpack in the console for the Mini-Monster 9600 Lm LED flashlight produced by MF Tactical for extremely dark situations.
“I’m fine—maybe a bump on my head—some bruised ribs,” answered Ellie. Then they confirmed the marks with Sally’s flashlight.
“Hazel?” Sally queried.
“Yeah, I’m alright—My ego more than anything—along with my ass.”
“Not going to run a flashlight on that.” Sally finished.
Then laying the light across the starboard gunnel Sally panned the horizon and caught a reflection within 400 meters of the max output of lumens. It wasn’t much. Possibly a small Caye.
“Hey Ell, does the Lowrance screen show an island nearby? Or at least some sort of structure at our 2 o’clock?” Sally quizzed.
“I got nothin’. The screen only shows water. Obviously, William was able to run us through this area with a high tide.”
“Hazel, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” Sally continued.
“Yeah, there’s at least a shadow of something out there. Maybe a coral reef or a mangrove.”
“Only one way to tell—let’s go. Ellie, you stay with the boat.”
Over the gunnel into knee deep water waded Sally and Hazel. The tide continued to lower and the further they traversed the shallower the wading became. Winds remained stout but the water was warm, and the mixed muck had fully converted to precious sands.
“Sally, look, it is a Caye!” Hazel explained. “I can see an eclipse of higher ground behind the shadows of the mangroves.”
“Must not be on the map—but clearly it’s some sort of outpost—let’s check it out.”
Onshore, they found a crumbling concrete structure. More than half-covered in moss, it was clearly some sort of Cold War era site. Purposely removed from anyone’s radar.
Inside they discover a long-dead radio operator named Modracek. Hazel recognized the nameplate on his desk.
“Sally, I think the bag of bones here is Milo “Mayday” Modracek. He was a spy for Australia during WWII—originally came from Czechoslovakia. Reportedly, he was an intricate member of the Fleet Radio Unit—guy who would transmit emergencies by decrypting Japanese naval comm—loved the drama.
“Damn, look at this!” Sally exclaimed as she perused over the skeletal remains. “It’s some sort of cryptic note: The Kraken swims beneath the North Carolina-class battleship. Watch for the blinking kelp.”
“Do you think The Kraken was here? Back in the ‘40’s? Or is it just a code?” Hazel questioned.
“Hard to say—but if you’re telling me that Modracek represented the Czech Republic—maybe this is some sort of connection to the Eastern Bloc?”
“Yeah, that might be a stretch. But look at this!” Hazel signaled—lifting a floorboard and exposing a hidden panel—then she pulled the cap and exposed a secret tunnel.
There was no secret tunnel back at Flathers and Scales Fishy Outfitters. Not yet. But there was urgency to acquire more hands at the island property. Guests would be arriving in two weeks—zero had been accomplished in their first full day at the island—passenger boat Hooked on Poutine remained at large on Lac du Bois.
Tomorrow, Rusty and Cos needed to find themselves a TopGunSniper. Someone who’d grown up on the lake—understood the nuances of camp operations—capable of maneuvering their way through a “Tin Can Alley of Sharks.”
These were Rusty’s thoughts, twirling on a spindle, while he lay in bed listening to the gaggle of geese and guard of squirrels saying good night to one another and to another day.
–To Be Continued—