Merciless Charity: A Charity Styles Novel (Caribbean Thriller Series Book 1) by Wayne Stinnett Page A
Authors: Wayne Stinnett
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the harbor was only seven feet deep at high tide. Dancer’s draft was six feet, much too close to take the risk except at the peak of high tide. Even with the sophisticated forward- and side-scanning sonar system on board, she didn’t want to chance it.
The large Danforth anchor bit into the sandy bottom as she backed down hard on it. With the wind blowing from the island and the tide rising, there was little chance of the boat swinging around.
Searching several yachting sites online, she soon learned that the tide here peaked an hour and twenty-four minutes after the high tide shown for Government Cut in Miami. Checking the tide chart for the Cut, she calculated that it was still an hour from the tidal peak. The next high tide, then, would be twelve hours and thirty minutes later, just before sunrise.
Standing on the cabin roof in front of the mast, Charity looked over the island through her binoculars. There was one boat tied up to the concrete dock that encircled the harbor, a pilothouse trawler about forty feet long. Being a deep-draft boat, it probably wouldn’t be leaving before high tide, if at all.
She decided to hail the boat, knowing they had to be aware she was anchored just outside the harbor. Pulling her handheld marine band VHF radio from the clip on her belt, she keyed the mic. “This is Wind Dancer calling the pilothouse trawler in Boca Chita Harbor.”
She waited a moment and then a woman’s voice answered back, “This is Sea Biscuit . Are you the sloop anchored just outside?”
“Yes, I’m waiting for high tide before entering. Will you be leaving on the tide?”
“No, Wind Dancer . We’re here for a couple of days. Feel free to come in whenever you want. The channel’s deeper than the charts say. It was eight feet on the morning tide.”
“Thanks, Sea Biscuit .”
Charity waited a moment longer, looking at the boat through the binoculars. Finally, a woman and a young girl about nine or ten stepped out onto the dock. The woman was tall and athletic. She turned and waved before following the girl down a trail and disappearing into the brush.
A moment later, Charity sat at the nav station, familiarizing herself with the many upgrades in the boat’s automated systems. After an hour of reading over the files, she started the engine, certain she could sail the boat anywhere she wanted to go.
Back at the helm, Charity nudged the boat forward as the windlass pulled the anchor free of the sandy bottom. Switching the sonar to forward scan, she saw the bottom and sides of the channel displayed in full color on the small screen, showing more than a foot of clearance to the bottom, with no irregularities.
Navigating the channel proved to be very easy, using the bow thruster for minor corrections. Not wanting to be intrusive, she chose a spot thirty or forty feet behind the trawler and brought the boat to a stop, the fenders still a foot from the black rubber bumpers on the concrete seawall.
Leaping the short span with both the stern and bow lines in hand, she pulled on both until the fenders lightly bumped the dock. The woman had reappeared, sitting alone on the fly bridge of the trawler. Charity finished tying the lines off, fore and aft, then stood and looked around.
“You made that channel look easy,” the woman shouted from the sundeck of the trawler.
“Thanks,” Charity called back. Remembering how cordial the cruising people she’d met in her youth had been she started walking toward the other boat. “The bow thruster helps. I’m Gabriela.”
The woman quickly descended the ladder and vaulted the low wooden rail that ran the length of the boat. Striding toward her in bare feet, she extended her hand. “Savannah. Savannah Richmond.”
Charity took the woman’s hand and said, “Gabriela Fleming. My friends call me Gabby.”
“Then that’s what I’ll call you, Gabby. Are you sailing alone?”
“Yes, for now. I’m meeting friends in Key Biscayne in the morning, but I
The large Danforth anchor bit into the sandy bottom as she backed down hard on it. With the wind blowing from the island and the tide rising, there was little chance of the boat swinging around.
Searching several yachting sites online, she soon learned that the tide here peaked an hour and twenty-four minutes after the high tide shown for Government Cut in Miami. Checking the tide chart for the Cut, she calculated that it was still an hour from the tidal peak. The next high tide, then, would be twelve hours and thirty minutes later, just before sunrise.
Standing on the cabin roof in front of the mast, Charity looked over the island through her binoculars. There was one boat tied up to the concrete dock that encircled the harbor, a pilothouse trawler about forty feet long. Being a deep-draft boat, it probably wouldn’t be leaving before high tide, if at all.
She decided to hail the boat, knowing they had to be aware she was anchored just outside the harbor. Pulling her handheld marine band VHF radio from the clip on her belt, she keyed the mic. “This is Wind Dancer calling the pilothouse trawler in Boca Chita Harbor.”
She waited a moment and then a woman’s voice answered back, “This is Sea Biscuit . Are you the sloop anchored just outside?”
“Yes, I’m waiting for high tide before entering. Will you be leaving on the tide?”
“No, Wind Dancer . We’re here for a couple of days. Feel free to come in whenever you want. The channel’s deeper than the charts say. It was eight feet on the morning tide.”
“Thanks, Sea Biscuit .”
Charity waited a moment longer, looking at the boat through the binoculars. Finally, a woman and a young girl about nine or ten stepped out onto the dock. The woman was tall and athletic. She turned and waved before following the girl down a trail and disappearing into the brush.
A moment later, Charity sat at the nav station, familiarizing herself with the many upgrades in the boat’s automated systems. After an hour of reading over the files, she started the engine, certain she could sail the boat anywhere she wanted to go.
Back at the helm, Charity nudged the boat forward as the windlass pulled the anchor free of the sandy bottom. Switching the sonar to forward scan, she saw the bottom and sides of the channel displayed in full color on the small screen, showing more than a foot of clearance to the bottom, with no irregularities.
Navigating the channel proved to be very easy, using the bow thruster for minor corrections. Not wanting to be intrusive, she chose a spot thirty or forty feet behind the trawler and brought the boat to a stop, the fenders still a foot from the black rubber bumpers on the concrete seawall.
Leaping the short span with both the stern and bow lines in hand, she pulled on both until the fenders lightly bumped the dock. The woman had reappeared, sitting alone on the fly bridge of the trawler. Charity finished tying the lines off, fore and aft, then stood and looked around.
“You made that channel look easy,” the woman shouted from the sundeck of the trawler.
“Thanks,” Charity called back. Remembering how cordial the cruising people she’d met in her youth had been she started walking toward the other boat. “The bow thruster helps. I’m Gabriela.”
The woman quickly descended the ladder and vaulted the low wooden rail that ran the length of the boat. Striding toward her in bare feet, she extended her hand. “Savannah. Savannah Richmond.”
Charity took the woman’s hand and said, “Gabriela Fleming. My friends call me Gabby.”
“Then that’s what I’ll call you, Gabby. Are you sailing alone?”
“Yes, for now. I’m meeting friends in Key Biscayne in the morning, but I
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