ACTION! ADVENTURE!

By

René Blanco

Number One Fantasy

My search for meaning was on hold—near-naked girls were dancing on a yacht in Miami Harbor as my mind drifted with all the laughter, music and foreign words around, imagining a fantasy I confessed to no other. Somehow I was helpless and feasted on by two or three or more women in the fantasy, kissing, grabbing, smothering me in mind-blowing pleasure impossible to escape from. Could there be anything better than being loved by too many members of the opposite sex? It was by far the number one fantasy of girls as well as guys, I read online.

Then a huge wave crashed into the sea wall and broke the spell—we jumped a few hours ahead with the sexy dances. Early tonight this was a good chance to meet girls and do exciting things, that sounded terrific since I was getting lazier than ever which worried me. But, after pulling into this rundown marina with my new friend, Captain “Gun” Gunderson, I saw the dive boat we were sailing on and my instincts shouted CANCEL! She was a grimy ivory color, sixty feet long with repair patches and cheap wooden letters spelling the boat’s name, BULL SHARK.

“Um, but, Gun...what is this?” I let my jaw hang open to express as much innocence and doubt as possible.

“Now don’t say anything yet, Caleb,” Gun replied in a gravelly voice. “Let’s get you a good bunk.” He hoisted a worn sea bag and an old guitar out of his truck, then led me aboard.

Gun was 52 with a true seafaring look, thick gray beard, flashing blue eyes and a long deeply lined face that made him seem vibrant and wise. His hair was a grayish blond color cropped short and he had a little bald spot centered in the crown of his head.

The sun was full but low on the horizon, and the air was stagnant and moist with heat. Crossing the gangplank I felt how much the boat bobbed around while tied to the dock in calm water. And she smelled of nasty things—gas, body odors, fish. Pops of air sounded on deck as a guy with a wet cigarette dangling out of his mouth filled rows of scuba tanks from a noisy compressor.

Terror struck fast when the wake of a passing boat hit the hull, and I only avoided going overboard by snatching a handrail with both arms! Anyone could tell I was no sailor but this boat felt as unstable as me! Fighting to balance myself on the rocking deck it was clear my life was headed out of control unless I backed out now. A glorious sunset blazed over the harbor as I looked for any sign to help me decide. Heat waves rippled in every direction like wrinkled sunlight. Gazing in a form of shock at the countless boats it was such a bewildering moment, as intense yellows, orange and red hues flared off every piece of metal or glass in sight. Vapor haze from the extreme humidity plus many lingering gas fumes altered my views of what looked real, reflecting a hazy certainty I had about this trip also altering my life. But, before backing out I hustled below to secure a bunk that I might be able to live with, putting off any final decision while feathering my nest just in case.

After testing all the bunks and settling into one, I returned on deck but the sun had gone down by then and the twilight glow almost faded to night. More bad things happened—a boat that just passed us was followed by a sleek warship with a diagonal stripe across the bow, the mark of a Coast Guard cutter. She swept along fast and menacing as a torpedo, barely splashing up waves while the dark silhouette bristled with antenna clusters and pointing weapons. Shafts of bright light flashed on. The cutter was chasing something. Several brilliant beams were trained on the small boat ahead, lighting her up like the noon sun and many surprised dark faces shrank back in hiding.

“Boatload of Haitians. Or Cubans,” Gun told me. “Probably Haitians.” He spoke as if he often saw these things, and plunked down on a bench to sort his gear.

A sharp siren blew, then a loudspeaker rang out from the cutter’s tower. “Halt! This is the United States Coast Guard! Stop your engines!” Shrill toots cut through the night.

The refugee boat veered toward shore, trying to beach itself. It was a brief but fast chase while more police vessels with sirens wailing and powerful red, white and blue lights converged on the boat from all sides. Then an explosion! A cannon blast! And the deafening shock fractured space for an instant, followed by an echo that boomed past us in the thick summer air.

Poorly dressed men and women began screaming in a foreign language and leaping from the boat in a desperate bid to reach the shore.

“They fired a blank as a warning shot,” Gun told me. “Sounds different. No splash, either, see?”

The boat passengers poured into the water like cascades. Coast Guard and Miami Harbor Patrol skiffs buzzed around the scene to pull many of them out. Life preservers flew amidst the frantic screaming and pleas of, “Asylum! Azil! Asylum! Azil Politik!” Countless police lights hunted for illegals in the dark water.