Everglades (Doc Ford) by Randy Wayne White

Author:Randy Wayne White [White, Randy Wayne]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780425196861
Amazon: 0425196860
Publisher: Berkley
Published: 2004-05-25T00:00:00+00:00

Riding in an airboat, when an accelerant G-force begins to roll your eyes back, causing facial flesh to flutter, your first sensory impression is that you are on a saucer, sliding out of control and destined for disaster.

That’s the way it felt when James first hit the throttle. Out of control. Iffy.

And not without reason. In a traditional boat, water is a built-in governor because you have to displace water to move. In a land vehicle, you roll along comfortably, reassured by the limitations of friction. But riding in an airboat is like being vaulted onto a plain of ice, an overpowered airplane propeller strapped to your butt.

It’s that kind of wild sensation.

But James Tiger knew how to drive an airboat. That became evident quickly. Had he not possessed great expertise, we’d have died within seconds—simple as that.

After handing us headphones and battery packs—portable communications systems—he took the captain’s chair above the engine, then directed Tomlinson and DeAntoni into the two seats in front of, and beneath him.

I had no choice but to sit on one of the bench seats toward the bow—which was fine with me.

I pulled my headphones on, pushed the wire microphone away from my chin—I had no expectations of talking—and listened to DeAntoni and Tomlinson chatter away while James started the engine.

Deafening. It may have been a conventional aircraft engine, but it was as loud as any jet I’ve ever heard—and one of the key reasons I don’t like airboats. I’ve never liked airboats. The noise spooks wildlife while negating solitude gained by the isolated places to which airboats provide transport.

Even jet skis aren’t as obnoxious—and jet skis (personal watercraft, they’re now called) were once the untreated offal of noise pollution until manufacturers began to quiet them down.

Gatrell built airboats, raced airboats, sold airboats and, for all I know, stole airboats—it wouldn’t have been a surprise. I grew up around the things; drove them when I had too, worked on their engines when it was required. Mostly, though, I avoided them.

Which is why I already regretted my decision to ride along. In fact, I was giving serious consideration to raising my hand, stopping James Tiger at the dock, and telling him I’d changed my mind. To go ahead without me. That I preferred to walk along the Tamiami Trail; do a little bird-watching and see what kind of fish cruised the surface of the canal.

I never got the chance.

The moment he freed the lines, James swung the airboat a gut-wrenching 380 degrees at full throttle, and then seemed to accomplish the impossible: He used the turn to generate momentum, running his new airboat up the grassy edge of a ramp as if it were a ski jump . . . vaulted about fifteen yards of coral parking lot . . . landed on another patch of grass, gaining even more speed. Then he used the bank of the canal as a second ramp that launched us over two lanes of asphalt—the Tamiami Trail—which would have been sufficiently scary, even if there had not been a truck coming.

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