Bahama Crisis

Joe Kimble was in the office ofLucayan Beach Air Services, allocating areas on a map. Bobby Bowen was there, and Bill Pinder, another Corporation pilot, and there were three other pilots, volunteers from BASRA. Joe said, "Now, remember we're tying in with the US Coast Guard on this. Stick to your own areas and watch your altitude. And watch for the choppers we don't want a mid-air collision to complicate things."

We walked out to the tie-down lines and the sky was just lightening in the east as we took off. I flew with Bobby Bowen and, as we flew west and gained altitude, the panorama in the rising sun was achingly beautiful.

Lucqyan Girl was of a type which the Americans call a trawler.

Because of recurrent oil crises a demand has arisen for a boat, not particularly fast, but with range and sea- keeping qualities, and light on fuel. These boats, no matter who the designer, all look pretty much alike because they were all trying to solve the same problems and inevitably came up with the same results. And our problem was that in Florida and Bahamian waters they are as thick as fleas on a dog.

Not many people make night passages in power boats in the Islands but we spotted our first twenty miles out and heading our way. We were flying at 2500 feet, adhering strictly to regulations for the course we were on, and Bowen dropped us 1000 feet, again going by the book.

I looked at the boat through glasses as we went by and shook my head.

Bowen took us up again.

It was a long and futile search. We found six boats but not Lucqyan Girl. From the intermittent chatter on the radio no 4' one else was having any luck either. Visibility so early in the morning was generally good but, as the sun rose, cloud began to form.

Presently Bowen said, "Got to go back." He tapped the fuel gauge. ^ So we went back, the engine coughing as we landed, and found that all the others had already returned. No one had seen the Girl and neither had the US Coast Guard. Joe Kimble reamed out Bobby Bowen.

"You cut that too damn fine."

Bowen managed a tired smile.

"No problem; I emptied my cigarette lighter into the tank."

"I sure as hell don't want to go out there looking for plane wreckage because some damn fool has run out of gas. Don't do it again."

I said, "Refuel, Bobby."

One of the BASRA pilots stirred.

"I'll take you out again, Mr. Mangan.

I'm fuelled up. "

So I went out again. They all went out again. They were a good crowd.

And we all came back, but not Lucayan Girl.

The next few days were grim. People pussyfooted around me, not knowing what to do or say, and work went to hell. I felt as numb as though I had been mentally anaesthetized and I suppose I acted like a zombie, one of the walking dead. I wished I was dead.

Billy said, "This is no time to talk business, Tom. Let me know when we can get together again." He went back to Houston, but Debbie refused to go home and stayed on to look after Karen. I was in no mood to argue.

Looking back I can see that this was worse than a normal death in the family. There was no funeral, no assuaging ceremonial nothing to do. There was the ever-present expectation of a telephone call which would magically solve everything and restore my wife and daughter to me and bring back my old friend, Pete Albury. I jerked every time a phone rang anywhere.

The house was haunted. Although the pool was mirror-like in its quietness there was still held in the mind's eye the image of a lithe young body, sleek as an otter, breaking the surface with a shout of joy, and I expected, on turning a corner, to find at any moment the dark beauty of Julie perhaps going about some domestic chore like watering the roses.

I suppose I was a haunted man.

Debbie was very good. At first she sought to cheer me up, but I was impervious so she desisted and contented herself with acting as a barrier between me and the world of the newspapers. And she saw that I ate regularly and did not drink too much or, at least, drink alone.

She need not have worried about that; I have never considered that diving into a bottle could solve any problems.

She looked after Karen and played with her and stopped my little daughter from worrying me too much in those awful first days. Once I overheard Karen say to her, "What's wrong with Daddy?"

"Your father has some problems," said Debbie.

"Don't bother him now he'll be all right soon."

Karen had not been told, but sooner or later I would have to tell her that her mother and sister were dead. I wondered if the idea of death would mean much to a nine-year-old. I sweated at the thought of telling her.

And then there were Julie's parents, Mike and Ellen Pascoe. I did not know how to contact them because they were on the move, driving from Maryland to Miami where they expected to meet Julie at the Fontainbleu. I left a message at the Fontainbleu asking that they ring me immediately on arrival.

The call came two days later and Ellen was on the line.

"Julie isn't here," she said.

"Has she been held up?"

"Can I speak to Mike?"