Wood's Wreck by Steven Becker Page B

had to do was have Norm make a few calls and the problem would go away. 
    Fifteen minutes later, he reached the ladder in the lagoon, took off his fins, and hauled himself and the bags full of lobster from the water. Several thousand dollars richer. He stripped off his gear and went inside where he plucked an ice cube from the machine and put it in his mouth. While he sucked on it, he filled a glass, went to the bar and poured an amber liquid from a decanter. After he’d downed half the drink, he reached for his phone heading back outside to the deck. 
    A green head broke the surface of the water inside the cage as he walked towards it, but he ignored it and continued pacing the deck as the phone rang and went to voicemail. 
     
    ***
     
    The sun roused Mac from a sound sleep. It had taken him until sunset last night to haul the boat around the island to the small beach, where he left it tied to a pile. He had cooked the rest of the fish and, too tired for anything else, went to bed. 
    He swung his legs to the ground, surprised at how sore he was from pulling the boat. Then he went outside and doused himself in the rustic shower. Feeling refreshed, he headed to the beach to check on the boat. He felt an odd calm, despite his troubles. It was good to be on the island doing only what was essential to his everyday survival. Maybe Wood had it right, he thought as he moved aside the mangroves that disguised the trail and went towards the water. But the calm left him when he saw the boat. The island life would have to wait. Getting the engine started and repairing the hull were only the first steps to finding out what was going on at the Sawyer Keys.
    It still floated, but that was about all he could say for the beaten boat. He waded out and leaned over the gunwale. Before leaving last night, he had stuffed a seat cushion in the hole, and it had held reasonably well. There was only an inch or so of water sloshing around inside the hull. He waded back toward the beach and moved the mangroves away from the skiff. It sat on a truck axle, its bow leaning forward in the sand, unbalanced since the motor was stolen. Mac took a line and tied it to the bow cleat, then started to pull, but the boat wouldn’t budge. He checked the tires and found them almost flat from the couple of years since the boat had been used. 
    He went back to the shed and retrieved a bicycle pump and some hand tools, which he took back to the beach. It was harder than he thought to inflate the tires even to half volume, which he guessed would move them through the sand without bogging down. But soon he was able to pull the boat to the water. It floated off the axle and he tied it next to the wreck. Then he repositioned the make-shift trailer, untied the other boat, and guided it toward the waiting transport system. With the line in one hand to hold the boat in position, he went to the beach and came back with a steel cable. He attached its hook to the bow of the boat.
    Now they should be ready to go.
    Back on the beach, he went to the winch and started cranking. The line came taught and the boat started to move up the beach toward the clearing. He had to pause several times to catch his breath; the mechanism and axle made for a much lighter boat, but it was still a workout. 
    Finally, the task accomplished, he sat with his back against the wheels and rested, trying to figure out how to patch the hole. It wasn’t the materials that would be the problem—he had noticed epoxy in the shed and there was plenty of wood around. But with only 12-volt power available, he wouldn’t be able to use most of the tools. 
    He walked back to the house, pumped a jug full of water, and went to the shed. The batteries were wired in a parallel configuration, ideal for storing power at a lower voltage. By changing the connection from the current configuration of positive to positive and negative to negative, to a serial configuration of negative to positive, he thought he could