MINNIE and the MANATEES

Gasping for air, Minnie lunged at the metal post which anchored the chain link fence, gripping it with both hands. Her quivering legs could not have carried her another fifteen feet. The fishy smell of the waterway mingled with that of her own pungent sweat. There was not a hint of breeze from the gulf, and the humid air of the South Florida night offered no relief. Her matted hair prickled under a woolly cap and she rubbed the side of her head against the pole to relieve the itching, wondering what on earth had come over her. The riskiest thing she had done in her life to that point was wearing shorts and a halter top on her forty-fifth birthday.

A half-hour earlier, while dressing all in black, her mind had spun with anxiety. As she stuck the kitchen knife into her pants pocket she felt like a cat burglar, except that they were slim, agile people who knew karate. She was a fifty-seven-year-old divorcee who had gained thirty pounds since learning about her cheating husband.

While her legs recovered from the run, she checked the sky and saw that the waning moon cooperated, staying behind thick clouds. A single bulb dangled high over the entrance to the marina. Though no more than forty watts in strength, it seemed to expose her like a floodlight in a jail yard, and Minnie knew she could not stay there long. She allowed herself a couple more deep breaths then reached for the tumbler lock. Now, the darkness was against her; it was almost impossible to see the small numbers.

“Damn,” Minnie whispered. She seldom cursed but this seemed to be the night for breaking patterns. She recalled another thing about cat burglars: they don’t need reading glasses. Squinting, Minnie slanted the lock this way and that under the meager light. Even though it had been over a year since that boat ride with the Castleburys, she recalled the combination. They had explained that the condo association changed the marina code every January first but they kept it simple. It was the four digits of the current year, backwards. Minnie found the number one and the zeros by feel. She rolled them to the center line. After only two misses she found the number two. The lock clicked open.

Hunched over almost double, thighs burning, Minnie crept along the dock. Jimmy Simm's boat, built solely for speed, hunkered low in the water. There was a cabin cruiser moored on one side and a lofty fishing boat, complete with satellite dish, on the other. Its size provided Minnie some protection from any insomniacs who might be standing behind darkened condominium windows.

At close range Simm's boat looked wide and firm, so Minnie thought it would be stable. But when she stepped down the boat responded to her weight and shifted away from the dock.

She cried out before she could clamp her mouth shut. Her legs were spreading apart, one foot on the dock, one on the boat. She flung her body forward and fell onto the hull. Splayed on the slick surface, she stayed still for an agonizing few minutes expecting to see lights pop on and hear doors squeak open. But she heard only the slosh of water as the boat settled and the hum of a car several streets away.

Minnie felt her way past the seats and over a couple of duffel bags to the rear. Two huge engines loomed against the glimmer of the water. Taking the kitchen knife from her pocket, she felt for exposed screws which she hoped might be holding the motors in place. Her fingers traced inch after inch, foot after foot, of smooth fiberglass. If there were screws involved, they were buried. Why hadn't she studied a boating magazine and been better prepared? Too eager to act, she may have sabotaged herself.

Her groping fingers did find what seemed to be a gas cap on the outside edge of the boat. Looking for something to use as a scoop, Minnie unzipped one of the duffel bags and came up with a thermos. With its cup she dipped water and poured it into what she hoped was the gas tank. In the stillness, the sluicing noise seemed as loud as the rush of a stream. After a few well-spaced dips, Minnie replaced the cup and the thermos and sat back on her heels.

Searching for gas or water lines, she returned to the front of the boat and felt under what would be the dash if it were a car. She stretched her arms into the narrow space and felt two lines. She sawed at one of them with the serrated edge of the knife, but since she couldn’t see anything beyond her elbows she had no sense of how much damage she was doing. She chose the other line and, after a couple of minutes of sawing, felt an abrasion begin to form. The line was coated with a braided fiber which was shedding and falling through her fingers. She felt the knife hesitate...it had gone through to the rubber. Flushed with success, she worked harder, perspiration soaking her long-sleeved T-shirt. When she felt a trickle of moisture on her fingers she grinned. Then she heard a car approaching fast.

Minnie scrunched down to a ball. The car stopped in front of the marina gate, brakes squealing. Minnie clamped her eyes shut as if to render the night even darker.

"You're a slimy pile of carrion fodder," a woman screamed. A car door slammed and high heels clicked on the pavement, moving in the opposite direction, toward the condominium building.

"Don't be so damned touchy," a man's voice called.

"Eff you!" she yelled, her voice catching as though tears would be next.

A window slid open. "Hey down there, it's three o'clock in the morning!" The window slammed shut, and the car sped off.

It was suddenly so quiet that Minnie heard her heartbeat in her ears. What a stupid idea this was; she could so easily be caught. She waited a full five minutes, then stepped out of the boat, crept along the dock, relocked the gate and ran.