17 July, 2025
The Gulf
On his second day sailing from Tampa Bay northwest across the Gulf of Mexico, Dawson Melburn spotted a massive container ship coming out of the fog on his port side. The baritone blast from its horn echoed across the water, causing Daw to jerk the tiller. He immediately came about, not wanting to play chicken with a craft longer than two city blocks and taller than a 15-story building. His 30-foot sloop obeyed his commands, even though it lacked its jib and had a slow leak in its bow compartment.
Dawson had chosen the right craft to steal just after the hurricane laid waste to Florida’s west coast. Tampa’s Marine Patrol and the Coast Guard had their hands full clearing the traffic lanes of mangled pleasure craft and commercial vessels that had slipped their moorings. He didn’t expect any pursuit, and so far he’d been lucky. Given the on-shore chaos after the storm, it could be days before the boat’s owner reported it missing. And the Coast Guard would probably assume the little craft lay on the bottom of the bay, providing habitat for sea life.
He sat at the tiller and yawned, having only enjoyed catnaps over the last 48 hours. Daw figured he had another day on the sea before reaching Louisiana, one more day to figure out his next move – where to beach the sailboat, somewhere away from curious eyes and the law, or to sail on to Mexico and points south. As the sea slowly swallowed the sun, a string of white lights appeared far to the north.
Just where they should be, Dawson thought. That bright spot is probably New Orleans … steer clear of it … head for the darkness … to the west.
The wind filled the boat’s single sail. Daw tethered the tiller and stepped inside the tiny cabin. He’d been doubly lucky because the boat he’d stolen contained cases of bottled water, beer, and snack foods, enough to supply a fraternity kegger. He grabbed a water bottle and returned to the tiller, staring westward at the red sky. Even with the uncertainties of a dark sea and the danger of rogue waves, Dawson relaxed for one of the few times in the past three years.
***
His thoughts drifted back to the day he got on the bus in Portland, on his way to engineering school at Oregon State University. His father had dreamed of Dawson joining his firm as a licensed architect. But Daw didn’t have the artful feel for design as his father had and he loved the quantitative nature of structural engineering – bringing the wild and fanciful concepts of the architects into the real world, the world that could be measured, where calculations, if done right, didn’t lie.