Treasure Tracks, page 1
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For my mami in heaven
AUTHOR’S NOTE
Growing up in the Caribbean and Florida, I’ve been through my share of hurricanes. One stormy evening, I was hunkered down in Key Largo reading Last Train to Paradise by Les Standiford. It detailed the impacts of the Labor Day hurricane of 1935, the deadliest storm ever to hit the Florida Keys, and one of the strongest hurricanes ever recorded in history, with winds topping 185 miles per hour. Hundreds of souls were lost, including over two hundred World War I veterans stationed at relief work camps in the Middle Keys.
There were many tragic stories associated with this hurricane, which also caused railcars from Henry Flagler’s Overseas Railroad, connecting Key West to the mainland, to be swept to sea. After it was destroyed, the railroad was never rebuilt, though some of its bridges and rails still stand, running parallel to the Overseas Highway. This got me thinking … How many stories from the passengers who perished on this train remained untold? And what if there was treasure on board?
Another devastating hurricane named Irma made landfall in the Florida Keys in September of 2017. I lived through this one and experienced its punishing blows. By combining the forces of this modern-day hurricane and the one from the past, Treasure Tracks came to life.
There are approximately one thousand documented shipwrecks in the waters surrounding the Florida Keys, many of them around Key Largo. Recognized as a diving capital of the world, the unique coral reef system in these waters is beautiful, but it can be deadly to ships because of the shallow waters and dangerous Gulf Stream current. And yes, hurricanes have done a lot of the sinking!
I have a personal passion for diving and underwater adventures. I dove Elbow Reef and the City of Washington wreck, the site featured on the cover, which inspired a climactic scene. I even had a close encounter with a blacktip shark at this spot and learned that if you leave sharks alone, they shouldn’t bite.
Another thing I’ve learned: Adventures might be worth more than gold. So dive in, or at least dip your toes in the ocean.
1
A PIRATE’S SOUL
Submerged in the deep blue ocean, the world stood still all around me. I’m talking too still, with fish and all the wonders of the sea in hiding mode. Only seagrass and sand.
Boring …
My first official creds-secured scuba dive and I’d discovered a big ol’ nothing. Goose egg. Zero on the adventure scale.
Abuelo Kiki made frantic hand gestures beside me. Up. Up. Up.
A glance at the gauge confirmed my air would end soon. I propelled myself from the sandy bottom. Off like a rocket.
Swoosh.
Bubbles trailed behind. Within seconds, my face broke above the final wall of clear blue water, bathwater warm in the heat. The sky greeted us, but the early September sun was not smiling down. Dark gray clouds warned of trouble.
Abuelo surfaced next to me. “No time to lose, Fin. Weather’s ’bout to turn. Some of the outer bands of the storm seem to be making their way in. Gotta shove on. Highway’s gonna be crammed—everyone fighting to get out. And I promised to get you home to Miami before it hit.”
“Wish we could stay and hang in the Keys,” I grumbled.
“According to the weather radio this morning, Hurricane Irma’s ’bout a hundred miles south of here, ravaging Cuba. She’ll travel up the Florida Straits and hit us some time tomorrow morning.”
I yanked off my mask and regulator. The challenge was balancing the heavy tank on my back. The duck-like fins on my feet didn’t make it any easier. Waddle, waddle. My knees buckled in awkward angles climbing the ladder on the stern of the boat.
Abuelo plopped onto the deck behind me, his chest rising up and down in labored movements. He struggled to tear off gear. Gone was the rock-hard strength that used to pulse through his tanned arms. His faded anchor tattoo sagged where impressive lumps used to bulge on his biceps.
How could this be? He was so much tougher than me.
“Pass me your tank.” I extended a hand.
“I can manage on my own,” Abuelo snapped. “Get busy. Pull down the dive flag and bring up the anchor.” He gestured to the bow of his vintage 1973 nineteen-foot Boston Whaler. “Don’t know how I let you talk me into going out today.”
“Birthday gift,” I reminded him, before crawling along the rails, real grateful to have my sea legs back and lose the clumsy web feet.
I pulled on the line stretched out from a cleat on the bow but couldn’t get the anchor to budge. Not one bit.
From the stern, Abuelo grunted in his usual drill-sergeant way. “Come on, boy. Give it some muscle.”
My palms stung as I struggled to keep a grip on the wet line. I braced myself and pulled, inch by inch. No chance I’d let Abuelo down even if my pitiful pecs were still in training. Besides, one day soon, I’d help him haul up something way better than this stupid dead weight.
“Argh!” I finally lugged the anchor on board and waved an imaginary pirate hook in the air. “Not letting anyone mess with our treasure.”
“Little to worry about,” Abuelo scoffed. “No one knows it exists.”
“But there’re hundreds of divers coming out to the Florida Keys.”
As if on cue, a boat motored into view with a CONCHER SCUBA logo painted on its side. The big C at the front curved into a sea serpent tail slithering under the rest of the letters.
“See what I mean? Invading.”
“That there’s a divemaster. One of the pros. Paid to be out, unlike me.”
The driver saluted before racing out of sight.
“You think he’s after our loot? Only other boat we’ve seen since we anchored here.”
“Different kinds.” Abuelo chuckled. “Treasure comes in many forms. Natural ones hidden all over our coral reefs.”
“I want the real stuff…”
“Sure you do. Couldn’t wait a day past your twelfth birthday to go hunting, aye, matey?” He winked.
Over the summer he had paid for my scuba lessons and given me equipment. I’d just finished the course and was now officially a Junior Open Water Scuba Diver. I knew the lessons and my equipment had cost him a lot, but he never grumbled about it.
I raised two thumbs in the air. “Been waiting to get certified for a looong time.” Like, my whole life long. Or at least since the first time I remember dipping my toes in the ocean. A school of minnows came to greet me. We played hide-and-seek, but Mami had to grab me when I tried to follow them into the deep.
Abuelo’s expression turned serious, pulling me out of memory-mode. “You got no business having me as your dive buddy. I’m getting too old for this.”
“Old?” I snorted. “You act younger than Dad.” Way, way younger. “Where’s your sense of adventure? It’s what you always tell him.”
Abuelo took my bait. “Listen, squirt. Back in my day, I could teach you a thing or two about diving and adventure.” He shook his finger and his voice dropped to a whisper. “But your dad will have my head mounted on a wall like my sailfish if he gets wind of what we’re up to. Too risky as far as he’d be concerned. Especially with the storm on the way.”
“Relax … You always say I practically have gills. It’ll be our secret.” I drew a finger to my lips. “As usual.”
“I know all too well about them gills of yours. Ya got salt water flowing through your veins. How you think you landed your nickname, Fin?”
I rolled my eyes, even though I was totally grateful for the nickname he’d given me. Fin was way cooler than the über-Latino name my parents—or actually, Mami—gave me: Fernando. If I closed my eyes, I could hear Mami belting out Lady Gaga’s song “Alejandro.” Mami’s version was heavy on the Spanish accent and super exaggerated rolling of the R’s. Especially the part where she’d scream out my name when the refrain switched to “Ferrrrnando!”
Ugh. Made my skin crawl.
Abuelo interrupted my thoughts. “You were two years old. Even then you used to jump and swim out from my dock. No one could stop you. Used to scare the bejesus out of your dad. Think you learned to swim before you could walk. Born with fins, I always said.”
I gave him my best cheeky grin. “Yep, meant to be diving. Besides, only forty feet deep here. Not risky at all. We didn’t even have to stop and decompress. How much trouble could we possibly get into?”
BOOM!
The distant cannon of a thunderbolt fired off a warning.
“Get into position,” Abuelo commanded. I hustled back to sit next to him in the captain’s chair, which was big enough for both of us.
He rummaged through his duffel bag and pulled out his favorite Panama hat. Pressing the straw covering over his head, he added shade to a splattering of sunspots.
I gripped the handrail that went around the console. The boat slammed up and down, pounding over the waves, and swayed from side to side. Water splashed onto the deck, slapping sea salt over every inch of my skin. Dampening my courage. Gulp. “You really think Irma is going to be as bad as they say?” I shouted.
Abuelo frowned. “Who knows? But we haven’t had a real monster hit the Keys since the Labor Day hurricane of 1935. Storm of the century, they called it.”
“Were you there? For the storm of the century?”
“Hey.” Abuelo jabbed lightly at my shoulder. “I’m getting old, but not that old.”
Right. Duh. I did the math in my head. He’d have to be ancient, more than ninety, to remember that storm.
“Almost wiped out the Keys. Swept away our railroad.”
A crackle of lightning hit the water near the port side of the boat.
As more thunder boomed, Abuelo studied the sky again. “Hold tight!” He put the engine into full throttle and strengthened his grip on the wheel.
I sank deeper into the seat cushions. “Too bad it’s gone!”
“Not just lost. It went POOF!” He snapped his fingers. “Swallowed up by the sea. Tidal wave hit the train,” he bellowed. “Flung all the railcars on their sides like toys.”
A strong gust of wind whisked away his hat, but he didn’t bother glancing over the stern, where it disappeared in our churning wake. Far beyond reach.
Me, I leaned into him in the captain’s chair, holding on till my knuckles turned white.
Long minutes elapsed until we approached shore, passing a SLOW NO WAKE marker as Abuelo pulled way back on the throttle.
“The treasure,” Abuelo said. “It was on board.”
WHAT?
“You never told me about the train before. Only that you knew the way to a lost treasure. This is a way cooler story.”
Abuelo’s nod turned somber. He stared over the horizon. “’Bout time I tell you the truth. Don’t think anyone else knows.”
“Only me?” This was a big deal. He chose to trust me! “How do you know?” I pressed on. One thing was sure, Abuelo’s life was part mystery.
He ignored my question. “I won’t be around forever. This’ll be your secret to keep.”
“You know I’m a good keeper of secrets. We’re co-conspirators, you always tell me.” I tried my best to wink, though it probably looked more like an eye spasm as I did the one-eyed blinky-blink.
Abuelo smiled. “At least I got one trouper left in the family.”
Yep, that’s me. Team Abuelo and Fin.
“Get to the good stuff!” I urged, rubbing my sore hands together. “Do you know what’s hidden in the chest?”
Abuelo fell silent, his eyes trained over the ocean as we sliced through angry swells.
“Don’t stop,” I pleaded.
The wind responded with a high-pitched howl and a punch to the side of the hull.
Abuelo started up again. “Never said it was buried in a chest. This isn’t pirate treasure like in some bedtime story.” He chuckled. “It’s real. Old Spanish gold brought in from Cuba. Who knows where it came from. Probably an old shipwreck. Must be worth millions today.”
Millions? This was far more than I ever imagined.
“It comes from the same place we do?”
“Yes. Your home country. At least from my side. You got your mom’s Puerto Rican blood mixed in, too. Frijoles con habichuelas.” He snickered. “Mix of Caribbean beans.”
Forget the beans. Images of glowing doubloons floated through my mind. “So, if it’s gold, it kind of is like pirate treasure. They always had those old coins stashed in chests.”
Abuelo shook his head as he turned into the narrow canal leading to his home. As we approached, he cut the motor, letting the boat drift up to his dock. The second it bumped against the edge, I jumped onto the wooden planks to complete my first-mate duties. I knotted a thick blue line to a metal cleat the way he’d taught me and I’d perfected.
“Grab a bumper.” He pointed, then started attaching more lines to the boat and throwing them to me. “Gotta tie up real good before we scoot outta here. Make sure Sirena makes it. Canal should protect her from the bigger swells.”
My mind was on other things as I secured the rubber fender toward the stern. “We’ll find it. I know we can.”
“I’ve tried for many years, you know. It’s a treasure that doesn’t want to be found. Still lies in a watery grave.”
A shiver went up my spine. “You think when we find it there’ll be creepy pirate skeletons watching over it?”
“You’ve got Captain Jack Sparrow on the brain, Fin, but lots of piracy in the Caribbean to be sure. They weren’t the glorified adventurers you see in movies, though. Cuba built these huge fortresses to defend itself. Keep ’em out.”
“Wish we could visit Cuba together.” I’d love a chance to visit the place in person after all these years of listening to his stories. He’d taken me to Little Havana in Miami, named after the capital of Cuba, where we’d played dominoes in a park, but that couldn’t possibly be the same thing.
“One day when it’s free. Not giving a dime to those dictators.” Abuelo’s voice trembled with anger till it shook up a fit of coughing.
“Right.” Useless try. Best not to get Abuelo started. I had his Cuban rants practically memorized. Besides, I liked my American freedoms just so. “We’ll be so rich when we find it, we can go anywhere.”
“Careful, Fin. Treasure can turn men into real pirates,” Abuelo mumbled.
Another bolt of lightning shot down from the heavens to match the warning in his tone. In spite of the heat and humidity, a chill crept all the way down to my bones.
2
TWISTED REALITY
Less than an hour later, I plopped into the cab of Abuelo’s pickup. We rolled up the Overseas Highway, the famous interstate cutting through the sea, with bridge after bridge connecting the long string of small islands known as keys. It was supposed to deliver the sweeping water views printed on countless postcards that said Greetings from the Florida Keys! Wish You Were Here! Except now the highway offered the exact opposite of a welcome.
Waves threatened to drown out the road as the surf crept its way in. And for sure, Abuelo’s truck wouldn’t be able to swim nearly as well as me. Even the palm trees warned things were anything but the usual serene. Their leaves made an angry dance in the heavy breeze.
Inches ahead, an eighteen-wheeler rattled to a dead stop, blasting out a cloud of black smoke that drifted back through our windows, filling my lungs.
Cough. Cough.
“Crapola,” Abuelo muttered. “I was hoping to beat the rush. Parking lot out here now. At this rate, we won’t reach Miami till nightfall. And this toxic—”
Ding ding ding. My phone had been working fine yesterday when Abuelo and I left the mainland and came down to his place, but there’d been no service all morning. Until now. Maybe something to do with the storm.
“You gonna answer those beeps? I’m getting ready to throw that darned phone of yours out the window. Not sure why you young people even bother with those things. All this technology stuff telling you what to do. Always on. Always intruding.”
My phone now displayed five missed calls and eight messages:
Mami (8:03 a.m.): Happy birthday! See U soon.
Mami (12:17 p.m.): Where are U? Supposed to be home hours ago.
Mami (1:30 p.m.): Call me.
Mami (2:40 p.m.): Call me. Now!
Mami (3:22 p.m.): You better call me right NOW!
Dad (3:35 p.m.): Report home. We’re worried.
Mami (3:47 p.m.): Hurricane is hitting soon. Are U OK?
Mami (3:52 p.m.): Will call police to search for U.
I took a deep breath (cough, cough) before pressing the phone symbol in her contact. Good thing she couldn’t wring my neck over the airwaves.
Mami answered on the first ring. “Fernando Javier Cordero Román, where have you been?” she yelled.
