Committing murder isn’t hard. It's getting away with it that is incredibly difficult.
Mathias King
Mathias drew the mushroom anchor from its hiding place in the storage compartment, hand gripped tightly around the shank. The sound of the water splashing against the hull, the old diesel motor droning on under the deck, and the creek and sigh of wood flexing as the old boat rolled on the waves would cover most of his movement. From where he stood Mathias could see the captain in his chair at the back of the boat. He moved up the stairs slowly, looking in every direction. He had to be sure the two of them were alone on the Saint Brendan. At the top of the steps he could see the entire boat through the pilot house windows. There was no one else. Walking with determination, building momentum behind him, he stepped over the raised door frame out onto the wood deck. Without a pause he moved toward the captain, feet now up on the rail, leaning back in that old steel-frame chair.
Two steps behind the captain, Mathias raised the mushroom-shaped anchor above his shoulder. Using his body’s momentum to multiply the force, he brought it down hard on the back of the man’s head, leaning into the swing. The old man slumped forward in his chair, a trickle of blood beginning to pool in his hair. At the crown of his skull, a hollow sloped inward now, where it once curved out. What was left of his coffee pooled onto the deck, the cup clanging on the wood. He wasn’t dead, but he wouldn’t be waking up. It was better than he deserved.
Mathias moved quickly back to the storage compartment, checking along the way to be sure none of the girls had woken up. He removed the dry bag, the duffle bag, and the PVA fishing line. He carried each up on deck and rested them on top of the massive cooler that was bolted to the center of the deck. The cooler, which looked more like a chest freezer than anything else, served as a place to store food as well as a work surface. It wasn’t refrigerated, it didn’t have any electric components, it was just heavily insulated. With enough ice it could keep food cold for weeks. The huge box was four feet tall, six feet wide, and four feet deep. The lid must weigh seventy or eighty pounds alone. It was easily large enough to fit several people in. Mathias had considered it as a hiding place but worried someone might put something heavy on the lid. He also had concerns about how much oxygen it could hold and how long he might have to hide there so the option had been discarded.
Situation in hand, Mathias turned his attention outward. Scanning the ocean around them he saw nothing. No boats, no planes, no oil rigs, nothing. They were entirely alone and far enough off the coast of Florida that he couldn’t see land anymore. He noticed the make-shift auto pilot the captain had rigged up and decided to leave that alone for now. Most pressing, he needed to secure his target, just in case. Second, he had to minimize the amount of evidence he’d leave on the boat. The contract was fulfilled, now it was time to get away with it.
PVA fishing line is unique. It does the opposite of what you expect from fishing line. Most often it's used to tie together large chunks of meat, or to make bait bags for small ground up bait meal. Tied inside of a cage, it is lowered into the water. After a few hours or a few days, depending on the type, it dissolves entirely allowing the bait to flow freely in the water column, almost creating chum in and around the trap. This is particularly appealing when traditional chumming techniques won’t get the chum close enough to the target fishing area, like the floor of the ocean.
Mathias withdrew a pair of trauma shears from his bag, the kind paramedics use to quickly cut through a patient’s clothing in an emergency. He cut all of the captain’s clothing off and balled it up, wrapping the bundle in the man’s shirt. Next he pulled a spool of fifty pound fluorocarbon fishing line from his bag, the kind that takes over a thousand years to decompose, and tied the clothing bundle tight. He had to ensure that none of the clothing or the shoes inside could come out, then fastened it to the anchor. Finally, he rolled the man onto his side, noting his shallow breaths, and bound his wrists and ankles with the PVA fishing line. Mathias found this somewhat ironic considering the three bound girls in the berth below. He laughed to himself realizing he was the only person onboard not tied up. Finally he tied the ankles to the wrists so the man looked like a pasty white crab rangoon with body hair and a head. To this he secured the anchor with the bundle of clothing attached, again with PVA.
The idea was that the anchor would pull the man’s body eighty feet down, to the bottom of the Gulf. There were several wrecks in the area that hosted hoards of predators and he’d try to find one of those. On the bottom the body would be suspended until the PVA dissolved. At that point there was no risk he would float back up, the grouper, sharks, crabs, eel, and octopus would start devouring him before sunset. The rest of the denizens of the deep would make sure there was nothing left but a skeleton inside of a week. The PVA also made sure that if any body part was found later it wouldn’t have a rope, chain, or some other indication of foul play attached. The clothing needed to stay gone, it had to appear that he’d fallen overboard or left the boat intentionally.
There was a risk, however small, that half a naked body would wash up on some beach or be found floating in the Gulf. You can’t control everything. That would certainly be suspicious and warrant an investigation. Mathias figured that risk was in the single digits. More of a risk was that a body covered in clothing would fail to be fully consumed by local marine life and eventually found. Every year or two there is a story in the news about a foot inside of a shoe, a hand inside of a glove, or some leg still inside a pair of jeans washing up on a beach or being caught in shrimp nets. That was the real risk. That was what Mathis was working to avoid.
Mathias covered the body with a brown burlap tarp, the kind used for baking and cleaning sponges, then made his way into the pilot house. Along the way he reached into his bag of toys and removed an unused burner phone. Powering it up for the first time he consulted an offshore fishing app to find the closest reef. Mathias wasn’t a boat captain, he had little experience with boats, but even he could figure out how to follow a red arrow on the phone in a boat that was already running. An hour later he brought the boat to an idle just over where the phone said an unnamed wreck rested in seventy eight feet of water. The depth finder, which the captain had apparently turned on earlier, showed the contours of the ocean floor thirteen fathoms below. Unlike everything he’d seen so far on the device this was jagged and uneven with sharp edges rising up from the bottom. It wasn’t the flat sandy bottom he’d seen since taking control of the boat. He could also see what appeared to be large schools of fish down there. These depth finders were awesome! It was times like this that Mathias thought that maybe he should take up fishing. The problem was that if he did he’d have to name a boat, and there was no way he could bring himself to do that.
A brief check of the area and then the unconscious, and probably brain dead, man went over the side. The ten pound weight didn’t pull the man down into the depths like you see in the movies. Instead it was more like a controlled sink through viscous fluid. He sank, but not quickly. Bubbles trailed from the man’s mouth as he descended. He didn’t convulse, he didn’t struggle, but Mathias knew he was drowning. By the time he got to the bottom he was dead; just over forty seconds. Despite the water being beautiful and incredibly clear, there was nothing at that depth that was visible. Mathias felt comfortable with the disposal.
A hose lay on deck and Mathias turned it on one more time to rinse off anything that he may have missed during the cleanup on the way to this spot. That done, he turned again to his offshore fishing app, got the general direction of the Florida Keys, matched it with a heading on the compass just behind the steering wheel, and tossed the phone overboard. No tracking.
An hour after they left the dock they reached open ocean, another hour went by before Mathias took out the captain and assumed control of the boat. Yet another hour to get to this shipwreck site. The final hour was occupied preparing and dumping the body then cleaning up the boat. That made it eleven am. It was going to be a long trip southwest of their current location, probably another ten hours. Sunset was just before 8pm so they’d arrive in the dark. Perfect. Mathias poured his first cup of coffee of the day and throttled up the engine, headed toward the Keys.
Underway once again, and restoring the ex-captain’s makeshift autopilot, he checked on the girls. They were still out, each breathing softly. Mathias stood looking at them. He considered cutting them free right now but that felt wrong. If they woke up they wouldn’t know who he was, or where they were. They might mistake him for one of those who’d abducted them. Then who knows; they might attack, jump overboard to escape, sabotage the boat, too many variables. No, better to keep them restrained until they were closer to the Keys. If his plan played out, they’d never even know who they had to thank. He climbed the stairs and closed the small door behind him.
The next ten hours were uneventful. He only saw one other boat, a shrimp boat, and it was going the opposite direction. Occasionally he caught a glimpse of land but otherwise he kept his heading and waited. The sun set at 7:49pm. It was absolutely stunning. There was an old saying among seafarers, a version of it even referenced in the Bible of all places, “red sky at night, sailors delight”. Looking out at the sunset it was most certainly going to be a delightful night.
A quick walk around the boat confirmed that no lights were on. Law required running lights at night but Mathias had no intention of announcing his presence. The one thing he’d neglected to consider as his plan developed was fuel. This only occurred to him as he looked down at the ‘dash board’ and saw the fuel gauge. It was obviously broken. The glass was shattered, some of it missing, and the needle was gone entirely. The Saint Brendan had docked in Everglades City the night before, had not brought on additional fuel. Then she pushed off early in the morning, not stopping for fuel. It was possible they’d run out of fuel before they arrived. Nothing to be done about it so Mathias sailed on.
Under a glorious canopy of stars Mathias first spotted what he expected was the light from Loggerhead Key Lighthouse. It blazed in lazy circles warning sailors of dangers below. There were maps onboard the Saint Brendan and Mathias had been teaching himself how to read them for much of the past ten hours. It was how he managed to get to such a small piece of land in such a large ocean. If his reconning was correct, the Loggerhead Lighthouse was five miles ahead and the Dry Tortugas National Park was two miles to the east. Considering the purpose of the lighthouse, and looking at the maps as they drew nearer, especially the one that showed shallow reefs, shoals, and unnamed islands, Mathias realized he didn’t have the skills to navigate through the channel that went between these two islands. Certainly not in the dark of night. That was ok, he could execute the next part of the plan without passing between them, especially since only a sliver of the moon was visible and the weather was calm. Mathias moved the throttle to idle so that he could prepare.
The girls were still asleep though he expected them to come around any time. From his duffle bag he extracted a compact black plastic roll and two collapsible aluminum oars painted black. The oars were wrapped inside the plastic roll and it was all tied up with a length of black paracord. The roll was a very small inflatable boat, a dinghy, just big enough for one person, maybe two. He also withdrew a battery operated air pump and a pair of thin black leather gloves. In ten minutes he had the small craft inflated, the oars extended, and the entire contraption floating in the black water and tied to the rear of the Saint Brendan. Gloves now on, he smoothly loaded his duffle and dry bag into the craft. Then, he began looking for a sandbar.
Mathias navigated the boat three miles closer, bearing east of the lighthouse toward Fort Jefferson. The Fort, a monstrous hexagonal building with walls eight feet thick and forty-five feet tall, was built in 1846. Each corner of the hexagon is topped with what almost appears to be a turret capped with cannons. Between the corners, rows of square holes that each would have housed a cannon. The Fort was supposed to be a massive coastal stronghold boasting four hundred and sixty cannons, unheard of even in those days. The sixteen million bricks used to build the fortification came from Gulf coast cities as far away as Louisiana, making it the largest masonry building in the western hemisphere. Were it not for the color and texture of brick it would look like a medieval castle engulfing nearly the entire island it was built on. Despite the design and initial purpose, the fort initially served as a Union military prison during the Civil War, not the dominant naval outpost most expected it to be. Most notably it housed Dr. Samuel Mudd, the physician who treated John Wilkes Booth after Lincoln's assassination.
The Fort was eventually abandoned in the late 1800s after only 30 years of use. It never served as the deterrent it was meant to be and never fired a single cannon. Mathias thought it was funny that nobody on the engineering team that designed and built the Fort ever thought about the weather and general conditions they’d have to endure in the middle of the ocean, one hundred thirty miles from the Florida mainland and ninety miles from Cuba. It shouldn’t have been surprising to anyone. Maybe it was some Senator’s ‘pork project’ back in the day. Most recently, it became the centerpiece of Dry Tortugas National Park, mostly a tourist destination known for its remote beauty, marine life, and historical intrigue. All that open water between Ford Jefferson and Key West meant that not many people actually visited. In the dark Mathias couldn’t see the building, but he sensed it was there.
The boat struck a sandbar at just over idle speed. The would-be captain was certain the strike didn’t damage the boat, there was no loud noise or bang, It just came to a stop very quickly despite the engine still running. It didn’t even throw Mathias off his feet. Mathias chuckled to himself, his first time captaining a boat and he had already run it aground; exactly what he was hoping for.
Typically when a boat runs aground the first thing you do is turn off the engine. This protects the propellers as well as the engine itself. Rather than shut it down, Mathias pressed up on the throttle lever. The old diesel responded hesitantly, the hum of the engine eventually reaching a fever pitch as it spun the propeller as quickly as it could. In open water they’d be cruising along at top speed, twelve miles an hour. Sitting still in the sand the prop wash coming from the back of the boat was tremendous. Sand, tiny bubbles, and water churned in waves from the transom.
Mathias walked away from the helm and looked out over the ocean. He could see the stars reflecting off the water all the way to the horizon, the only disturbance was caused by the Saint Brendan. If it weren’t for the lighthouse he’d believe he was in the middle of the ocean with nothing for hundreds of miles. Leaning over the side Mathias submerged his hand in the water for nearly a full minute. The water was warm, somewhere in the mid-seventies. There was a wetsuit and fins in his duffle but he decided he wouldn’t need them. The water was warm enough to be safe if he ended up swimming for some reason. Even if he got wet he had a change of clothes in the dry bag. There were two final steps before Mathias could leave the boat.
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The diesel still humming at a high pitch, he walked to the top of the stairs and opened the door to the berth. It was so dark in the sleeping quarters you could almost feel the dark drifting out. He listened for five full minutes, just standing at the top of the stairs. There was only soft rhythmic breathing. Slowly he descended the steps, a pair of fishing pliers in his right hand that he’d found earlier in a tool box. It was finally time to free the girls. Finding the bottom he reached up and grasped the overhead light he’d seen earlier in the day. He clicked the button to the on position but nothing happened. He clicked it again but still nothing.
Pausing and taking the light issue as some kind of sign, he projected his imagination further into the future. After a moment he realized it would look better if the girls were still tied up when the authorities got here. If someone has taken the time to cut them loose, why hadn’t they taken them when they abandoned ship? Or just killed them? It would play better if they appeared forgotten about or abandoned. He turned, walked back up the stairs and then turned left toward the captain’s chair leaving the door open and the girls where they were.
On the wall just above the captain’s chair was a small device strapped to the wall. It was bright, a strange color somewhere between a bright yellow and a neon green. Someone certainly wanted to make sure you knew where it was in case you needed it. The device was called an EPIRB, standing for Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon. Essentially, it would activate automatically if it got wet enough (like, if the boat was sinking) or you could manually click a button on the top of it and then, anywhere in the world, it would transmit the boat's location and an emergency alert via satellite to the U.S. Coast Guard or other search and rescue authorities. Mathias unhooked its straps and released the device. Setting it on top of the large cooler on deck he removed a hammer from a nearby toolbox.
Using the hammer he created a scene of violence in the pilot house. It looked like a massive brawl had occurred. If he’d had a gun he might have fired it a few times just for the bullet holes. Not a window remained unbroken, no gauges worked, no electronics remained mounted to the walls or dashboard. He even shattered the screen of the depth finder he liked so much. The coffee pot too. The only thing he spared was the compass, and for no reason other than he thought it looked cool and didn’t want to bust it up. On deck he did much the same, continuing the scene of the brawl. He even turned the ex-captain’s coffee chair on its side and bent two of the legs. Tools from the tool box were scattered about, the toolbox flipped on its side, and the lid of the massive cooler was thrown overboard.
The tone of the old diesel engine had changed as he worked. After just a few minutes the smooth hum had been interrupted by the occasional knocking sound. Eventually the knock became part of the rhythm. A coughing noise joined the symphony next, small pops of backfiring from the exhaust. Fifteen minutes in the cacophony was joined by a sickening smell of burnt rubber. Finally, the smell of burning oil joined the catastrophe. It went from healthy, to struggling, to outright sickening. The heat emanating from the engine compartment was staggering.
Ingesting sand into the engine’s raw water cooling system is, to say the least, very bad. Very bad is exactly what Mathias was going for. Marine engines, and certainly the one on the Saint Brendan, draw fresh seawater in using a water pump and impeller. The faster an engine runs, the more water the pump draws in to cool it. The water is then pushed throughout the engine, cooling the machine before it is expelled back into the ocean. The intake grate on the Saint Brendan, where the fresh seawater entered, was directly below the engine, buried in the sand. As soon as they hit the sandbar it began sucking buckets of sand up and into the engine along with whatever seawater it could pull. If Mathias had killed the engine immediately there would have been minimal harm. When Mathias increased the engine’s power to full he signed its death warrant.
Over the last twenty minutes the sand had begun to clog the waterways inside the engine itself, constricting the passages used to cool the motor. Less water means more heat buildup. The impeller, the rubber blade that actually sucked the seawater up had slowly been ground away to nothing by the passing sand. By the time it could no longer draw in water the internal temperature of the engine, which should have been around one hundred eighty degrees, was well past two hundred sixty. Worried that the trapped heat might ignite the boat, Mathias removed the engine cover, a wave of heat singeing the tips of his arm hairs and eyebrows as it passed. The exhaust manifold was the color of hot coals in a campfire. The cylinder head had begun to glow as well. It kept chugging along, the damage accumulating, metal parts expanding and beginning to weld into one another. He stepped away, afraid of getting hit with shrapnel if the whole thing exploded.
Hot oil sprayed across the port side of the engine compartment as the head gasket failed, then a clunk, then silence. The engine seized up entirely, just an orange glow and copious amounts of steam coming from the hole in the deck.
Still concerned about fire, Mathias looked for a way to cool the engine a little. A white five gallon bucket hung from a hook embedded in the shade canopy. Mathias took it down, filled it with seawater, and dumped all five gallons at once onto the engine. Maybe not his smartest decision. Steam exploded up, looking like a tiny white mushroom cloud in the dark. Felt more than heard, a loud crack reverberated through the wooden structure. All that cool seawater quenching the motor at once; something metal had broken, and broken hard in the engine. Much like his burner phone earlier in the day, the key to the boat went into the ocean. The boat wasn’t going anywhere.
Extracting a microfiber cloth from his duffle bag, Mathias wiped down every surface he might have touched that day. This took more time than he liked but with that done he finally got to the last step, the EPIRB. The bilge is an area of a boat located below deck, even below the engine, where water collects. Rain water, hose water, or water that splashes over the side of the boat collects in the bilge. Sometimes old boats that aren’t very water-tight even leak into the bilge. Boats with a bilge always have a pump, surprisingly called a bilge pump, that clears this water out when it gets to a specific level. There is always a little water in the bilge, but usually not much. The Saint Brendan had just enough.
Mathias dropped the EPIRB down into the bilge area. It splashed into the oily water and after about thirty seconds a strobe light began to flash brightly with an audible beep accompanying each flash. A red light also illuminated on the top. It had begun transmitting the Saint Brendan’s location to the United States Coast Guard seventy miles away in Key West. It was time for Mathias to disappear.
He climbed over the rail and into the dinghy. Getting himself situated, he untied the paracord and pushed away from the hull. Even fifty feet away from the boat he could still hear the beep of the EPIRB and see the flashing strobe light. Steam was still wafting up from the engine compartment. The girls would be fine. If they mobilized quickly a Coast Guard MH-60T Jayhawk helicopter could be here within forty-five minutes. It would take him that long to reach the island. A rescue boat or two would follow ninety minutes later. Mathias was dressed in dark clothing, sitting inside of a black inflatable raft, using black painted aluminum oars. There was no way they were seeing him unless they used thermal monoculars. They likely wouldn’t start that until they had entered the boat, found it empty except the girls, and began searching for anyone who may have been in the water. He pointed his raft toward Fort Jefferson and began to row.
The lights of the helicopter appeared forty minutes later, coming from the east. Another ten minutes and it was on-scene making broad circles around the Saint Brendan. Mathias’ raft touched the soft sand of North Swim Beach next to the northeast wall of Fort Jefferson just as the helicopter turned on its search light and focused it on the boat. By the time the chopper lowered its hoist cable with a swimmer attached Mathias was out of the water and had deflated the raft. He watched the hoist lower the rescue swimmer onto the deck of the Saint Brendan a couple miles into the darkness, rolling up the small raft, collapsing the oars, tying it all back up, and stowing it in his duffle bag.
By the time the spotlight began searching the waters around the boat he had changed into his spare outfit, a pair of khaki cargo shorts, a green hawaiian type button-up shirt, sandals, and a hat that dipped low over his eyes. His dirty clothes went back into the bag. Taking one last look at the rescue operation he saw someone being hoisted up into the Coast Guard helicopter in a basket. It had to be one of the girls. That made him feel good.
Mathias walked south along the gravel pathway toward the ferry dock. He bumped into a group of campers who were overnighting at the Dry Tortugas Campground. They’d been awakened by the noise of the helicopter. Seeing him coming from that direction a teenage kid with curly black hair asked if he knew what was going on, he said “no, I was just taking pictures of the sky. Looks like there’s a boat out there. Maybe the Coast Guard is rescuing someone”. He watched the rest of the rescue effort from the front of the ferry dock, mingling among the campers. He was dressed just like them, no one had any idea that he didn’t belong. When the Coast Guard cutter and Response Boat–Medium arrived on-scene Mathias drifted away from the campers, yawning, and made his way to the opposite side of the island, near the campground. He found an empty campsite with one of those all-in-one metal picnic tables with attached benches. The benches happened to be exceptionally wide so he lay down, using his dry bag for a pillow, and was asleep almost instantly. It had been a long and profitable day. Emilee would even say he had done some good.
The next morning moved slowly. There was a ferry that made the seventy mile trip out to the island and back each day, but it didn’t arrive until eleven. Mathias had to kill some time while he waited. He toured the fort, walked the beaches, and read the one book in his dry bag. He avoided North Swim Beach. He avoided talking to anyone. At the ferry dock a small snack bar opened around nine. Breakfast was two granola bars, a bottle of orange juice, and a small plate of someone’s homemade cinnamon rolls. All paid for with cash.
The ferry arrived from Key West at ten thirty, a little bit early. Mathias boarded as the other guests were disembarking. Surprisingly nobody asked him for a ticket. He guessed it wasn’t often that someone only booked a one-way trip. Surprisingly the ship had free hot freshwater showers, so he indulged. The snack bar onboard offered the usual salty and sweet snacks along with some hot food. Lunch was a burger, chips, and a soda, also all cash. They had a bar too, only open on the return trip, but Mathias didn’t drink and even if he did this wasn’t over yet. He had to be on his game. The ferry left the dock at three pm and, unlike his last trip on a boat, it was uneventful. The seas were still calm and by five thirty he was in Key West.
The sunrise that morning was stunning, and it had woken Mathias up, along with the crow of a rooster some idiot had brought onto the island. From the moment he opened his eyes, he was thinking about his car. He thought about it while he waited, and while he rode the ferry back to civilization. Key West to Everglades city was over two hundred miles by road. It was probably one of the hardest riddles to solve in this whole adventure; how to get back to his car?
Obviously there could be no record that he was ever here. That meant car rentals were out. Both Everglades City and Key West had an airport, but the one in Everglades City had one runway and didn’t offer any regular commercial flights. Also, they’d require ID. Greyhound had a bus depot in Key West but the closest they got to Everglades City was Ft. Meyers, seventy five miles to the north. Same problem, different city. There was no train in Key West and it was too far to ride a bicycle. He could rent a gas scooter, but they weren’t legal to ride outside of the city and even then he would essentially be stealing it since he wasn’t coming back here. Also, they’d want ID and probably a credit card for the safety deposit. All that left him was to go old school, to hitchhike. There was a risk of being harassed by the police, but he’d be careful. It was his only real option that didn’t guarantee leaving evidence he’d been here.
Mathias walked from the ferry dock in Key West up Grinnell Street, turned right, and headed toward Duval Street. He zig-zagged his way up one block and then down another until he found what he was looking for. Three blocks east of Duval Street was a dumpy little hostel that had a hand written cardboard sign in the window that read, “beds available”. It looked like a three or four bedroom house. Under it was written, and then crossed out, $40. It now said $20. Mid-week hostels in April, well after Spring Break season, apparently didn’t rent well. He walked in and asked for a bed. Another $20 on top of the room rate and he didn’t need to provide identification or a deposit. The room he was in had eight beds. None were occupied. He took the one closest to the window and spent his evening reading before he went to sleep.
The next morning Mathias got up with the sun. No one had joined him in the room overnight. On the way out he asked the girl at the desk if they had an old piece of cardboard and a black marker he could use. Apparently she had talked to the desk agent from the night before because it cost him five dollars. He crafted his hitchhiker sign and started the four mile walk to highway one, the only road out of town. Luck for Mathias, Key West has something of a transient nature. Students, vagabonds, drifters, overlanders, and all kinds of people make their way down to the furthest point south in the United States. They don’t usually stay long and as long as they don’t cause trouble the police don’t mess with them. The locals are used to it too and it has just become part of the culture of the place.
Mathias didn’t have to stand on the side of the road for long with his sign before someone stopped. The sign read, “Naples or Bust”. He wasn’t going to Naples, but Everglades City was on the way to Naples so he figured he could ask the driver to drop him back at the Marathon gas station with the Subway inside. Why tell the world where you’re actually going? Someone might remember you. It worked perfectly. An older Ford E-350 Econoline Van pulled up, one of the ones that seats fifteen people and is overly long. The sliding door opened on the passenger side. Cars honked behind them. A girl in her early twenties was driving, fake blonde hair, short jean shorts, and a tanktop. She smiled pleasantly at him. In the passenger seat was, presumably, her boyfriend, dressed much the same with dark brown hair longer than the drivers. He didn’t look back. In the back, the person who opened the door, was another girl but this one was slightly overweight, yoga pants, socks only, a long sleeve black shirt with some band on the front, and had a butch haircut. The van was the Super Wagon model, obviously from the late nineties, with a 7.3l diesel engine. What was it with diesels on this trip?
The butch girl said, “Jump in, we’re going through Naples, want to see the old Tamiami”. Mathias replied with a “thank you” and stepped in with his duffle bag and dry bag and put them on the floor between the seats. She closed the door behind him. There were two seats directly behind the driver and passenger. The rest of the van had two small bunk beds, allowing four people to sleep in it, and a tiny kitchen area. These were among the infamous van-lifers Mathias had been hearing about. They lived in their vans and traveled the country avoiding adult responsibilities, working wherever they could to make enough for gas, food, and campground fees. Supposedly they all had jobs on the internet but that seemed unlikely. Despite some of the hate and resentment their parents' generation heaped on them this group was very nice. They all shared their names, Mathis shared someone else’s, no way he was sharing his. He offered to pitch in for gas and they accepted. There were no guitars or sing-alongs. These three had evidently known each other for a long time and they rode mostly in silence while the radio played with the occasional bit of chitchat about nothing important. Mathias just looked out the windows that weren’t covered over.
The drive from Key West to Everglades City took just over four hours. About five miles before the turn-off Mathias saw a road sign informing drivers that Evereglades City was only five miles away. This seemed like a natural way to ask for the stop. Mathias asked the group if they’d ever been to Everglades City. None of them had. He said, “I’ve always wanted to go, do you mind dropping me there instead?” The girl at the helm looked over at the long haired guy in the passenger seat who already had his phone out. He consulted one of the many map apps and said, “that should be fine, will only be two miles out of the way”. The driver said, “cool” and they went left at the Marathon gas station that led down State Road Twenty-Nine to Everglades City. Crossing the same bridge that Mathias had crossed two days earlier he saw the dock where the Saint Brendan usually rested. Across the street was the cabin and the campground.
They pulled up under a large tree, just past the campground, the door opened, and Mathias stepped out with his bags. He said his goodbyes, closed the door, and began walking toward his car. He’d paid cash for his hotel room through tomorrow and it was only one pm. If he got moving quickly he’d be out of Florida by dark and back in Philadelphia by seven am tomorrow. It had been a good couple days but he was excited to be back home.
