The Runaway

By Robert W. Beard

Robin Darnall, a man in his fifties, lived alone on his boat and preferred it that way. Untilhis solitude was suddenly interrupted by a young runaway boy. What followed was an adventure that led the two to distant places and threatening circumstances.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Apr 13, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462819140

Robert W. Beard

Robert Beard, a native of New Orleans, pursued an academic career—appointments at Princeton, Michigan, Iowa, Louisiana State, and Florida State universities. After retirement, he built a two-masted schooner, which, with his wife and two young men, he sailed through much of the Caribbean.

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Copyright © 2009 by Robert W. Beard.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Acknowledgement

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Dedication

This tale is written for a very fine young man, Josiah Ivy. Though fiction, he will surely recognize many of the places we visited and some of the people we met during the year we sailed the Caribbean.

Acknowledgement

My gratitude to Getty Images for permission to use the photograph on the cover of this book.

Chapter 1

A commotion suddenly erupted, the unmistakable beat of running footsteps, obscenities unleashed. Since curiosity is a demanding mistress, I bounded the four steps to the cockpit sole, and another two to the aft deck.

The sagging, weathered planks of the dock rose about chest high. An ancient wooden ladder hung down, its rungs leaving uneasy doubt it could sustain much weight. Glancing toward town, I made out two men at the far end, running my way. The heavyset one wore a blue shirt—tastelessly imprinted with images of crabs, lobsters, and other crustaceans—one of those garish offences to decency visitors to Florida seem compelled to purchase from vulgar tourist shops. Knee-length shorts and flip-flops completed his ensemble. His companion was taller and slightly more circumspect in dress, but shared his preference for flip-flops, hardly the most suitable footwear for running.

What’s the problem? I shouted.

Have you seen a kid? The little son-of-a-bitch stole my wallet, he countered angrily. Without speaking, I pointed to another long pier, intersecting at right angles the one they were on. The two men pivoted on their feet, and continued down the new route.

Reaching down, I quietly demanded, Give it to me. A moment later, I felt a bulky leather object in my hand. Is everything still in it?

A penitent young voice answered, Yes.

My boat, all forty-three feet of her, rolled gently with the incoming tide, fighting its battle with the current of the Apalachicola River. I worried she might be pushed into the rough creosoted pilings supporting the dilapidated dock tenuously holding her mooring lines. Fenders were suspended over the side, anticipating the worst, but they hung lifeless. As it was, a brisk northwest breeze eased her away from the dock, and were it not for the taut bow, stern, and spring lines, she might well be hard aground on the shallow bank dividing the two channels in the river.

The day was cloudless, afternoon temperatures not quite reaching eighty. The sun had yet another three hours before descending to its nocturnal resting place below the western horizon.

Apalachicola, in the eastern Florida Panhandle, fronts a long string of weathered docks lined with a thriving array of commercial shrimp boats, trawlers, and a variety of nondescript vessels. A hundred and fifty years ago, the town was a booming cotton port, second only to New Orleans. Looking upriver, I envisioned dangerously overloaded flatboats, piled high with bales of snow-white cotton, precariously making their way downstream, their cargos to be loaded on lighters and ferried to eagerly awaiting ships anchored offshore where the water was more hospitable. Alas, all that ended abruptly with the War for Southern Independence.

Much later, Greek fishermen briefly restored Apalach to prominence as a major source for sponges. Most of the grand homes that one sees today stem from that era.

Throughout the vicissitudes the town has suffered, the overshadowing presence of the muddy Apalachicola River remained a constant. Wholly unconcerned about the puny comings and goings of men, it makes its way into Apalachee Bay, and after passing a barrier island, St. George, reaches its goal, the splendid Gulf of Mexico.

My day started reasonably well. I took on fuel and stores, anticipating an early departure the next morning. Fueling was, as always, an onerous chore. Mooring lines were taken in, the boat maneuvered into a rather small space between two others along the fuel dock, tied up, and the nozzle of the cumbersome hose jammed into a deck fitting labeled Diesel. Since my gauge isn’t always reliable, there’s the ominous threat of overflow, and the prospect of a deck covered with a frothy coat of diesel is palpably unacceptable. An hour later, the procedure was reversed, and I cautiously made my way back to the marina dock.

A local ship’s chandler delivered stores. Cans and boxes were hastily stowed below in bins and crevices, wherever they would fit—there was never sufficient space.

One’s decision to live alone on a boat is not made flippantly. For some, it is simply an escape to a leisurely lifestyle far removed from the din of traffic and pressures of city life, an opportunity to meet new and different people and visit faraway places. For others, a self-imposed solitude, a respite needed to reconstruct one’s life, to recover from some or other personal disappointment or tragedy—a career that’s going nowhere, a failed marriage, the loss of someone close, or myriads of other failures, real or perceived.

I lay uncomfortably on one of the settees in the main cabin, trying to decide where to go next, and trying unsuccessfully to shut out haunting memories of events past. That’s when I was interrupted by the turmoil on the dock.

When I first stepped onto the cockpit sole, I became aware, not only of two men running toward me, but also the figure of a young boy clinging precariously to the back of the ladder, out of view of anyone standing above. His hands clasped the second rung, his feet pushing off from the fourth, mere inches above the surface of the murky water. He looked to be about thirteen years. Fear and a silent pleading showed plainly on his youthful face.

I could understand the anger and frustration of the guys on the dock. The heavyset man’s face was contorted, his left eye twitching with rage. I suspected getting his wallet back intact was almost incidental to what he had in mind for the young thief… . if he could only get his hands on him. But I wasn’t going to stand by casually while any kid gets beaten to a pulp by guys three times his size. At least not until I knew for sure he deserved it.

I climbed the ladder, carefully avoiding treading on the youngster’s hands, and quietly told him, Keep your head down, duck into the cabin, and stay out of sight! Stepping out onto the dock, I nonchalantly sauntered to the adjoining pier, and unobtrusively dropped the wallet into a trashcan. Pretending to be helpful, I strode toward the men, who were frantically looking over several boats moored in slips. Their anger increased to a feverish pitch as the likelihood of capturing their elusive quarry rapidly faded. When they finally admitted defeat, I casually mentioned I may have seen the boy surreptitiously ditch something when he turned down the adjoining pier. The three of us quickly retraced our steps to the point of intersection, where we hastily searched the area. Eventually the tall man looked into the trash, and, with triumph, retrieved the missing object. The owner of the wallet quickly looked through it—nothing was gone. With a final threat that he would, if he saw the little shit again, beat him within an inch of his life, the two left.

I was unsure what to do. It was likely they would notify the county sheriff. So, trying to appear casual, I returned to the boat, started the engines, cast off lines, and motored to an anchorage beyond view of anyone on the dock. Once the claw anchor was dropped and set, I mustered courage to go below and discuss serious matters with a desperately frightened young boy.

Chapter 2

How long since you ate? I asked.

Yesterday I finished part of a burger somebody left on a plate. Nothing the day before. I was really hungry; that’s why I took the wallet.

Grab that towel, I said, pointing to one I had recently folded. You’re pretty grubby. Shower while I fix something to eat. Hand out your clothes; I have a small washer-dryer. Remember: water is a precious commodity on a boat. Wet down, turn off the water, soap up, turn on the water, rinse off, and turn off the water. That’s all there is to it. I pointed to the shower, and turned to prepare a frozen chicken and noodle dinner in the microwave.

His clothing consisted of a soiled T-shirt, a pair of tattered short pants, worn socks with a hole in the toe of one, and underwear. A bit of detergent and an hour’s time would take care of those, but his shoes were beyond help.

He returned before the meal was quite ready, the towel wrapped neatly about his waist. As he turned, I noticed two or three telltale swollen whelps on his back, but said nothing. When the microwave’s timer sounded, I placed the meal in front of him. He sat and began to eat ravenously, though his manners were surprisingly good considering the circumstances.

I took time studying him, noticing for the first time what a handsome young man he was. Save for marks on his back, his skin was otherwise flawless, save for a small birthmark on one shoulder, which I initially mistook for a tattoo. His neck graceful, his still-damp silken hair golden blonde, an appealing dimple adorning each of his cheeks. His sky-blue eyes, though they displayed a measure of sadness, were bright and intelligent. But he was all boy; none of this added up to anything effeminate. Again, I said nothing, watching him finish off a couple of cookies as I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down.

He was nervous and apprehensive, almost fearful of his new environment, his eyes darting, almost as rapidly as a hummingbird, until he had taken everything in, eventually deciding that although some items seemed strange to him, there was nothing obviously threatening. Looking down at his plate, he asked, Are you going to turn me in?

I’m not really sure. It depends on what you tell me, and whether I believe it’s the truth.

He looked up hesitantly. My name’s Timmy, Timmy Keaton.

Assuming he had run away from home and was not local, I asked, How long were you on the road?

Three days. One night I slept under a bridge, and another in an empty house. Day before yesterday, I got here.

Where have you stayed since you’ve been here? I asked.

He eyed me suspiciously before replying. I slept under the porch of a house over there, he said pointing toward town. It was cold the first night; I didn’t have anything to eat. Yesterday, I walked to the burger stand at the end of the dock where I found what was left of somebody’s lunch, and spent most of the day hanging around the park where the sailboats tie up. Today, I was going to hitchhike further south, maybe Miami. I tried the burger stand again, but there wasn’t anything. As I started go, the two guys you saw walked up to the counter, and when one of them took out his wallet, I grabbed it and ran.

What are you going to do? he asked, gazing into my eyes anxiously. I’m not going back, and if they make me, I’ll run away again.

Honestly, I don’t know. Let me think about it. I left him sitting quietly alone with his own thoughts, while I withdrew to the far corner of the cabin.

I didn’t know what to do. I had my personal demons to deal with, and I surely didn’t want this kid’s companionship, or anyone else’s. And I wasn’t willing to assume responsibility for another person, least of all a runaway. Besides, there must be, I thought, some law against harboring a delinquent minor. If I turned him over to authorities, he would be off the streets, and perhaps social services could take care of his difficulties at home, whatever those might be. So the logical answer was to notify the sheriff’s department. Or I could simply set him ashore and