Wood's Reward

Chapter One

Hey Guys,

I’m going to be releasing Wood’s Reward, An Early Adventure of Mac and Wood one chapter at a time over the next year. Here’s the first installment:

Chapter One

“You know, Travis, the problem with you is that you overthink everything.”

Bill Woodson, known to most as Wood, had to almost yell to be heard over the sound of the pump clearing out the water in the cofferdam they had just erected. 

Mac wasn’t about to fight him. He was probably right anyway. The problem was that Wood didn’t think enough, sometimes. Stubbornness, or was Wood called it, persistence, counted for a lot, though. Besides that well-known trait, he was also famous for his brusqueness which he called being brutally honest. 

“All’s I’m saying is to let it sit overnight. It’s already near three, we’re only going to lose a few hours of work.” Mac eyed the cofferdam surrounding the old bridge piling. Of the forty-two bridges connecting the 113-mile stretch between Florida City and Key West, along with another couple of dozen neighborhood bridges, he and Wood had either built or repaired half of them. 

Mac had been a trained commercial diver certified in underwater welding and with experience working on some of the oil rigs off Galveston when he decided to make a break for the Florida Keys. Six years ago he left his crazy girlfriend and started his journey to the end of the road—Key West, where, as Wood said, the loose marbles ended up. Others who didn’t qualify for Key Weird ran out of speed and settled along the way. 

Mac hadn’t reached the southernmost point. He’d landed in Marathon, and though he’d had some misadventures, he didn’t regret any of it. 

He glanced at the ragged edges of the metal sheets driven into the sea bottom. “One tide change is all I’m asking. I don’t want to be in that thing the first time the current hits it.” Tides in the southern latitudes were generally small. That didn’t mean there wasn’t current, though. With the Atlantic Ocean on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other, the bridges experienced several knots of current. 

Wood barely nodded. Mac knew him well enough to see the concession and not push further. The preliminary work of driving the steel bulkheads into the muck and limestone bottom was usually done at slack tide. Any current would push the steel around, making it hard to get install properly. Patience was key, but once the enclosure was completed, they pumped it out and the real work could begin. But Mac didn’t want to be the canary in the coal mine if the construction failed, which often occurred during the first tide change. 

“About out of beer, anyway. Ought to be a decent snapper bite if you want.”

“That’d be good.” Mac stood and leaned over the steel projecting from the sea floor. There was only about a foot of water left. “Have one more, then she’ll be ready.”

Wood crushed the can in his hand, grunted and opened the cooler, where he deposited the empty and picked up two fresh ones. He held a dripping can out to Mac. 

“Thanks.” Mac took the can, bringing the ice-cold condensation to his forehead before opening it. He wasn’t a big drinker. One at the end of the workday and another later on was about it for him. Wood could drink all day without any visible effect. Beer, anyway. Everyone knew to steer clear when he started on hard liquor. 

The two men sat in silence—something they were very good at—drank their beers, and listened to the pump until it started to spatter. Mac checked the cofferdam again and, satisfied, shut off the pump. 

The quiet was immediate, though once the ringing in his ears from the pump ceased, Mac could hear the road noise. “We’re going to need fuel for tomorrow.” Fuel was always an issue. When they were working the Middle Keys, Boot Key Harbor was an easy answer. With three gas docks and Mac living off one of the canals, it was convenient. Here at the Spanish Harbor Channel Bridge, which lay right before Big Pine Key, it required some coordination to meet a fuel truck at the boat ramp at Scout Key. 

“We’ll dock her over at the ramp and I’ll call Gary. Got enough to take the skiff to the reef—if you’re game.”

“What about the beer?” Bait wasn’t often an issue. With a handful of pinfish traps close by or a couple throws of his castanet, they would have plenty. 

Wood rubbed the stubble on his face. He never actually grew a beard, but Mac couldn’t remember every seeing him clean-shaven, either. He removed his ball cap and smoothed down what was left of his hair. To an onlooker it might have looked like the hardest decision he had to make all day. 

“Got a pint of something around here somewhere.” He started rummaging through the large toolbox that held their rigging gear. 

Mac prayed he didn’t find it.

“How about we head to the fish camp? We can hit one of the close-in patch reefs on the ocean side.” He knew Wood would rather fish out by Upper Harbor Island, deep into the backcountry on the Gulf side, which he considered his personal retreat, but the thought of him being on a boat with Wood liquored up was not appealing.

“Suit yourself, Travis.”

Mac figured he just hadn’t found the bottle. His outward appearance and consistent drinking might give Wood the appearance of an alcoholic to some, but Mac knew differently. Sure, he probably drank too much, but the Keys were known to have booze on tap. The combination of the heat, humidity, and a mañana attitude contributed to the constant state of inebriation. 

“Shoot.” Wood glanced at his watch. “We can cruise by the marina at No Name.”

Mac considered Wood settling for anything besides hard liquor a win and started to stow the pump and coil up the two-inch hose. Wood started the twin engines on the barge and headed toward the boat ramp. They left the barge tied off the same piling where the skiff sat. Mac set the two spuds into the muck and freed the skiff. Commuting here was often a choice between a truck or a boat or some combination of both. They usually left the barge on site and used the skiff to go back and forth to Wood’s house on Big Pine, but the need for fuel changed that. 

Wood steered the aluminum skiff north, staying in the Big Spanish Channel to avoid the many shoals and flats in the area. He skirted the east end of No Name Key and rounded the tip before cutting back into Bogie Channel. Just under the bridge on the Big Pine side was the marina. They stopped and grabbed a twelve pack, some ice, and a box of squid so they wouldn’t have to catch bait. 

The navigation was anything but straightforward running through the channel. The backcountry, or backside of the Keys in this area, was riddled with small mangrove islands, many only humps that barely broke the water at low tide. Numerous small cuts and channels were marked by sticks of PVC and even mangrove branches. The locals knew what they meant, but a stranger in these waters needed to be careful.

Woods steered by memory, with a beer in one hand and the wheel in the other. He squinted into the sun, now low in the sky as he made a turn to the west where Big Spanish Channel merged with Upper Harbor Channel. Deep water lay about a mile or so ahead, but before they reached the two green markers indicating the end of the channel, he cut into an unmarked, snake-like pass.

Mac readied the rods as Wood navigated the channel. Easily visible by the deep green water color, in the low light of late afternoon it was almost indistinguishable from the surrounding flats. The only indication was the motion of the water on the surface. 

“Tide’s about right. Might as well try the mouth here,” Wood said as he brought the boat off plane and waited for the wake to pass. He circled the area for a minute before calling to Mac to drop the anchor. Protected by a string of small islands on the south along with the flats on the east and west, the only wind that unsettled the area was from the north, which usually only came with the winter cold fronts, making anchoring an easy task. 

Mac dropped the anchor and let out about twenty feet of line. In the ten feet of water it wasn’t a lot of scope, but not much was needed. He watched the water as the boat settled back on the hook. “Incoming tide ought to be good.”

The channel acted as a funnel bringing baitfish toward either end, depending on whether the tide was rising or falling. Within a few minutes Wood had cracked open his second beer and they had bait in the water. 

The hits, mostly smaller mangrove snapper, came fast and furious, forcing Mac to switch to a larger hook and cast further away from the boat. Wood did the same and the bite slowed down, but the size of the fish increased. There were soon a half-dozen keeper-sized mangrove snapper in the boat. 

As Wood got deeper into his six pack, which was probably his second of the day, Mac noticed him staring off at one of the nearby islands. 

Upper Harbor Key had saved Wood’s life back when Mac had first met him, and after being marooned there for twelve hours Wood always kept an interest in the island. About an acre at low tide and half of that at high, the island was densely covered with mangrove and a few larger palms showing overhead. From the right angle it had the profile of a turtle. Flats surrounded the island, except for a small channel on the northeast side. 

“That’ll be mine one day,” Wood said, 

Mac nodded, more interested in feeling the next bite than having the same conversation again. With his daughter, Mel, away at college, Wood was looking toward the next phase of his life. Between increasing regulations on construction above or below the water in the Keys, and the knowledge that he knew more than the engineers whose designs he was forced to follow, had made him bitter. When Mac met him six years ago, Wood had rarely said no to a job; now he rarely said yes. 

That was fine with Mac. The less work Wood took on, the fewer employees he needed, and in the Keys where labor was a crapshoot that was a good thing. 

“You listening, Travis? I’m gonna build me a house on that island. Already got a design in my head.”

“Right,” Mac said. He’d let Wood talk if he wanted. There was no stopping him, anyway. 

The tide slowed as the sun was about to set and the bite slowed, too. They’d done fairly well and had about ten keepers, all about twelve inches. Nothing great, but the small snappers made for good eating. “Wanna call it?” Mac asked.

“Might as well. Gonna have to do some real work tomorrow.”

“Yeah.” Mac pulled the anchor and shook off the mud and grass before bringing it aboard. Once he’d stowed it, Wood reversed his course from earlier and brought them out of the winding passage. 

Instead of heading into Big Spanish Channel, he stayed to the right and followed Upper Harbor Channel. Wood turned out of the channel by one of the unnamed Keys and headed across the flats toward Big Torch Key. The water between Big Torch and Big Pine Key was shallow, an area he wouldn’t have taken a larger boat. The propeller scars were testament to the several times a tourist in a bigger boat tried to follow him out and inevitably grounded. 

Once into Pine Channel, he found the entrance to the canal system that led to his house and slowed the boat before turning in. By the time they reached the dock behind his house it was dark. Mac helped stow the gear and hosed down the boat, but passed on dinner. Wood’s mood generally followed the sun, and when it set, Mac was out. Tomorrow he knew they would do it all over again.