Unlawful Chase by C.J. Schnier (new books to read .TXT) 📗

the Cayman islands came over me, but I fought it back. I could barely afford to clear into either country, much less stay there. Pruitt had given me enough to prepare for this trip, not enough to disappear with. Sneaking into Cuba was the only option open for me.

I let Paramour sail herself for another couple of hours before once again turning around and heading towards the shore. The sun was low in the sky, casting long shadows across the water by the time I neared Cuban waters again. I glued my eyes to the binoculars, scanning the waters relentlessly, pausing only to check my instruments. The radar was set to its longest range, but so far the scope was clear. My chart plotter ticked down the distance to my waypoint until Paramour crossed the invisible border into Cuba. The knowledge that every bit of distance sailed would be that much more distance I would have to cover if I had to flee gnawed at me, but I pressed on.

Time crawled by, slowing with every minute that passed. I worried about every contact the radar displayed, at one point searching the water for five minutes only to find a flock of seagulls feeding on bait fish three miles away. The tree covered cliffs of Punta Gran Diablo came into view when I was five miles out and I tweaked my sails, trying to eek out another quarter knot of speed. The sooner I was behind the cliffs, the sooner I could relax.

Two miles out, the radar picked up another target. This one glowed solid and bright on the monochrome screen. It was no flock of birds. This was something solid. I watched the dot on the screen as the screen refreshed itself, watching it move closer and closer with each pass. I had no way of knowing if it was the patrol boat or some other boat, but I didn't want to take any chances. The radar display showed it was twenty miles away, too far away to see me visually, but at the speed they were moving they would be in visual range by the time I made it to the mouth of the river. If they had radar, they already knew I was here. I jammed the throttle all the way forward and then rolled up the headsail and wrestled the mainsail down. Bare wooden masts would be much harder to see against a backdrop of trees than towering white sails.

The boat's bearing remained steady, moving down the coast in a straight line, neither heading towards the river, nor directly towards me, but instead, angling slightly out to sea. That was a good sign. If they had radar, they weren't interested or hadn't noticed me. I had sacrificed a little speed by dropping the sails, but Paramour continued to bound through the seas, making good time under engine power towards the cliffs already starting to tower over me.

The entrance to the river was not marked with any navigational aids. There were no buoys or markers to help guide me in, and the digital charts on the chart plotter were not nearly as detailed as they were for the US. Normally I would have slowed down, taking my time as I searched for a safe path into the river, but with the blip on the radar now within just a few miles of me, I didn't have that luxury. I would have to do my best to read the waters until I could get out of sight.

The setting sun didn't help my situation. The dark waters of the river had turned into a rippled golden mirror of sunlight, and even with polarized sunglasses I couldn't see below the surface. Instead, I was forced to keep a watchful eye on the depth sounder to avoid running aground while I made my approach. Rivers are notoriously difficult to navigate, but there are some tricks I had picked up over the years and I used them all as I barreled up the river at full speed.

The looming cliffs slipped by unnoticed as I concentrated on keeping the boat off the bottom, steering wildly in the river's current. My radar was now occluded by land on all sides, the bright moving dot of the unknown boat replaced by the solid outline of the cliffs. The sole break in the line of land was the opening where the river spilled into the sea, and that too disappeared as I rounded the first bend. As soon as I slipped behind the cliffs, I pulled back on the throttles, bringing the boat more into control, and allowing myself to take the precautions necessary to forge my way through the unknown waters.

I had made it.

◆◆◆

I found the marina two miles up the river. Unblemished floating docks anchored in place by gleaming white poles lined a man-made cove carved out of the river bank. Twin rock levies diverted the water, protecting the basin from the river's current. Dozens of slips jutting from floating docks lined the harbor. All of them sat empty and lifeless upon the obsidian mirror of the marina's still waters. Metal ramps leading to shore gleamed in the late afternoon sun. It was near one of these ramps where I spun Paramour around and backed her into a slip, a maneuver I would never try in a crowded marina, especially alone. She was not a nimble boat, even in forward. She was downright unruly in reverse.

Working the throttle and wheel, I managed to swing her stern into the slip on the first try. Within moments I had my old boat tied off securely. My ratty sun-faded dock lines completely out of place on the sparkling stainless steel cleats bolted to the dock. I laughed at the juxtaposition of my weatherbeaten old boat sitting alone in the posh new marina and gave my vessel an affectionate pat. "This place isn't good enough for you," I told her. I meant it too.

Nobody came to greet me, and