“We’ll wait for him here,” he announced.

Rabe shrugged. “Suit yourself. Be a long wait. Darryl usually don’t come in until close to sunset.”

My watch said it was twenty-two minutes past noon.

“I can’t stay here all day, Carlos. I’ve got work to do at the park. Plus, Mama will truss me up and shove me in the oven like a Thanksgiving turkey if I’m late for her bridal shower.”

I thought about our agenda of shower games. Maybe sticking my head in the oven wasn’t a bad alternative.

Carlos surveyed the boats next to the dock. “Are there life jackets?”

Rabe and I exchanged a glance.

“Yeah, we keep ’em under the seat up front. But the boats at that dock belong to guests. You’d be taking the camp’s boat. It’s pulled up over yonder next to the chickee hut, at the dock by the beach.”

“A beach?” I said.

“Yep. Unusual for these parts.” His voice swelled with pride. “We hauled in a bunch of sand and made a fake shoreline on the canal for when we have cookouts and such.”

“Was that Darryl’s idea?” I asked.

Rabe spit on the ground. “No way. My mom and I have been pretty much running this place. All Darryl does is drink, brawl, and fish.”

Carlos pressed his lips together. Swallowed again. “Will the camp’s boat be any newer than those at the dock?”

“Do you have a problem with boats?” I asked.

“I don’t have a problem. I’m just not crazy about being on the water.”

“You’re Cuban. You lived in Miami. And you don’t like the water?”

“Not every Cuban comes to the United States on a raft, Mace. My family is from the interior, the island’s agricultural region. We were always cattle people, not coastal people.”

Rabe dug into his pocket, and extracted a green tin of chewing tobacco. He offered some to Carlos, who declined the hospitable gesture.

“Listen,” Rabe said, as he tucked a pinch beneath his bottom lip. “The boat’ll be fine. It gets a lot of use. Nobody’s gotten hurt yet.”

“Always a first time,” Carlos grumbled.

“For real, man.” Rabe’s grin revealed the dark tobacco staining his bottom teeth. “You’ll be fine.”

Finally, Carlos nodded his assent.

“Good, then.” Darryl’s stepson stuck his hands in his overall pockets and turned toward the beach. “Y’all can follow me.”

Navigating slowly through a lock leading to Lake Okeechobee, I broke into the Gilligan’s Island theme song from behind the boat’s wheel: “Well, sit right down and hear a tale …”

By the time I reached the verse about the ill-fated three-hour cruise, storm clouds had gathered on Carlos’ face.

“Sorry,” I said. “Couldn’t resist.”

As we hit open water, several moments passed in silence as I opened the throttle, familiarized myself with the give in the steering, and settled as comfortably as possible in the elevated captain’s chair behind the wheel. There was a big rip on the seat’s plastic upholstery, and I felt a damp spot from the soaked stuffing spreading across the butt of my work pants.

The fish camp’s boat was a 16-foot fiberglass skiff, and only half as crappy as some of the vessels we’d seen at the dock. Carlos sat in the front, on the flat surface of the bow, facing me. I spotted a fish hawk pass overhead, fat prey squirming in its talons.

“Better watch out.” I pointed skyward. “If that osprey drops his dinner, it might knock you out. Talk about your unidentified flying objects.”

Carlos barely raised his eyes. Not even a chuckle. He sat stiffly, his fingertips touching a life vest next to him. There’d only been one vest in the hold. It was mildewed, ratty-looking, and faded by the sun from orange almost to white. Darryl apparently wasn’t big on strict compliance with Coast Guard safety standards. I’d handed the sole life jacket to Carlos.

Frowning, he pinched it between two fingers and held it out for inspection. Even from the back of the boat, near the stern, I could smell the fish stink on it.

“Just keep it within reach,” I’d told him. “I don’t think we’ll be hitting any icebergs.”

Now, we were heading into a notoriously shallow area of the lake. I tilted the motor up, bringing the propeller closer to the surface and away from the sharp rocks and thick grasses that lurked below. The boat’s flat bottom was a blessing. When the lake was low, I’d seen many vessels with V-shaped hulls run aground in these waters.

As soon as we were through the shallows, I lowered the prop and throttled up again. Carlos scanned the vast surface. “All I see is lake. Where’s this Ostrich Island?”

“Osprey.” I bit back a smile. Outsiders! “It’s not much farther.”

The motor purred. The boat might not look like much, but Rabe knew his way around an engine. Though ancient, the Evinrude seemed to be in tip-top shape. The breeze was picking up. Puffy white clouds skidded across a brilliant sky. The wind gave the lake a bit of a chop. The boat thudded over the waves, making for a bumpy ride.

“If—you’d—slow—down—it might—be—a—little—smoother.” Carlos’ words stuttered out in time to the boat’s bounces.

“If I slow down, we might not catch up to Darryl.”

The boat pounded the water. I glanced at him. His face was white.

“You don’t get sick, do you? This chop’s not much, but I know Marty gets seasick staring at a glass of water.”

“I’m not sick.” He clamped his lips shut.

“If you say so. But you might want to sit back here, where you can look forward. And if you do feel queasy at all, it helps to stare at a fixed point on the horizon.” I gestured to the far distance, where blue sky met the dark waters of the lake.

“How—thud—do you find a fixed point—thud—when you feel like you’re strapped to a basketball—thud—in full dribble?”

I looked at my watch. “We’re maybe fifteen to twenty minutes away.”

“You didn’t tell me we’d be navigating the entire lake.”

“Not even close. Lake Okeechobee is thirty miles from east to west; about the same from north to south. After Lake Michigan, it’s the second-biggest freshwater lake that lies entirely within the continental United States.”

“Very impressive, professor, even though I’ve heard the stats before.” He turned his head right and then left. “It’s still too much water for me.”

With an almost imperceptible shudder, he cast his eyes down to the deck.

We were silent for a bit; me watching the compass on the console and the shapes of the clouds crowding the sky; Carlos apparently memorizing the squiggly lines running through the boat’s fiberglass finish.

When the engine sputtered, his head jerked up. “What’s that?”

It sputtered again and then coughed.

“Crap,” I said. “It sounds like we’re out of gas.”

He grabbed for the life vest.

“No worries. I checked the second tank before we left. It’s full.” I shut off the motor. “It’ll just take a couple of minutes for me to change the fuel line to the full tank.”

I was busy, tending to the tanks, pumping the gas, starting the engine to get us underway again.

“Mace?” Carlos said.

“Hmm?”

“Is there supposed to be water back there, inside the boat?”

“Well, a little water is normal. It might be rainwater from that storm a couple days ago. Or maybe some spray from the wake.”

“I’m not talking about a little water. I’m talking about a lot.”

I felt a tiny stab of fear. “C’mon over here and take the wheel. And don’t worry, Carlos. Everything’s fine.”