2008 © René Blanco / WGAw

ACTION! ADVENTURE!

Romance in the Age of Suspense

By

René Blanco

CHAPTER 1

Number One Fantasy

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 my own fantasy that I confessed to no other. It was a fantasy where I couldn’t resist for some reason and was feasted on by two or three or more women, licking, grabbing, smothering me in all the thrilling flesh 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 somewhere.

Then a huge wave crashed into the sea wall and broke through my mental haze—yes, we jumped a few hours ahead with the sex. Earlier tonight this was a good opportunity to meet girls and do exciting things, I wanted those since I was becoming too lazy which worried me. But after pulling into this rundown marina with my friend, Captain “Gun” Gunderson, I saw the dive boat we were sailing on and my instincts shouted CANCEL! She was a grimy ivory color, 60 feet long with repair patches and cheap wooden letters spelling the boat’s name, BULL SHARK.

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

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

Gun was 49 with a true seafaring look, thick gray beard, flashing blue eyes and a long deeply-lined face which 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.

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—fish, gasoline, body odors. Pops of air sounded on deck as a willowy man with a wet cigarette dangling out of his mouth filled rows of scuba tanks from a noisy compressor.

The night was stagnant and moist with heat, but dread came over me when waves from a passing boat hit the hull and I only avoided a hard fall by snatching a railing with both arms. Anyone could tell I was no sailor. Fighting to balance myself on the rocking deck it was clear my life was headed out of control unless I backed out.

Bad things happened fast as the boat that just passed by was followed by a warship with a diagonal stripe across the bow, the mark of a U.S. Coast Guard cutter. Two bright shafts of light flashed on—the cutter was chasing something. The 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 like 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, “This is the United States Coast Guard! Stop your engines! By order of the United States government!” A shrill series of toots from the siren cut 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. Next came the deafening shock of a cannon blast followed by an echo which boomed past us in the thick summer air.