Casino Cruises from Jacksonville

OFF SANIBEL ISLAND, FLORIDA (FEDERAL REPUBLIC OF FLORIDA)

FRIDAY 14 NOVEMBER 2081

CONTESTANTS REMAINING: 8

Leaving the cave may have been a mistake, but I was getting restless and nervous and I had to go. This might sound weird, given the circumstances, but I felt as if someone was watching me. I don't mean because of the broadcast or the satellites or any of that. I mean I felt as if somebody was following me, tracking me, spying on me, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike. But I never saw anyone, no matter how vigilant I was.
I wanted to head west, toward the old city of Las Vegas, but I had no idea what to expect. Three years after my show premiered, I was on the verge of opening a second restaurant in one of the casinos there. Location, contracts, staff, finances, everything was in place.
I didn't realize that the bottom was about to fall out of the gambling industry. Not just in Vegas, but all over the world. Macau, Atlantic City, Monte Carlo, Reno. Massive resort development companies and tiny riverboat casino owners alike lost everything within hours. Needless to say, I never opened the place. But I digress. Even with all the time that had passed, I knew that I would be recognized. That is, if it wasn't a ghost town.
I left my pickup in Galveston, Texas, and borrowed a boat to head to Florida. OK, “borrowed” may not be exactly the right word. But I figured since I was sorta leaving my truck as collateral, I could kinda justify it, at least in my own head. I stayed relatively close to shore because Duffy likes being out on the deck. I can swim, but not well enough to rescue a drowning dog. Don't get me wrong. He seems smart, but I didn't know if the waves were strong enough to knock him off balance and into the water.
We stopped a couple times for food and other supplies. If I'd been alone, I wouldn't have worried about it. I've gone for days without much to eat. But when you have another life to worry about, it kinda changes your perspective on everything.
I had a feature on my show once a month where I would invite a chef who had just opened a business to promote it and share a recipe or a technique. Carlos Andres Mejia was one of my very first guests. He had started a Cuban restaurant in Miami called El Torre de Havana. We stayed in touch for a few years until he sold it and moved across the state—technically, across the country. He was hired as the executive chef at the Sarasota Yacht Club, and I hoped he was still there.
I maneuvered slowly and cautiously through the channel. The water was crystal clear and shallow enough in spots that I could see individual grains of sand, even from the bridge. I finally eased in alongside the pier at the marina. I didn't think it would be a big deal. I see it all the time in Boston. Boats come into the harbor from wherever. Here, I've become a spectacle: a boat from what is now a foreign country, driven by a guy who looks like he's been in the woods for half his life, no one else on board but a scruffy gray dog, showing up unannounced and uninvited to a private club. As soon as I activated the boat’s automated mooring system, the marina was swarmed by security.
My nerves jangled as I apologized for the unexpected visit and asked if Carlos was still the executive chef. One of the security team members asked who I was. I almost told him, but I was afraid that he might put a bullet in my head and claim my prize. I told him I was an old friend from Miami, but I know that I couldn't keep up the pretense very long. I was almost relieved to find out that Carlos had moved on, because I wouldn't really have to leave the boat. I tried the "no harm, no foul” tactic and hoped they would just forget the whole thing and let me go.
I heard a pop and felt an impact against my shoulder. Another pop. Something whizzed by my head and slammed into the window of the bridge. I ducked just before three more pops sounded and I reached for the automated mooring system’s retrieval button. As the lines retracted into the boat, I maneuvered away from the dock and back into the channel.
I finally got out into deep water and shut everything down. Poor Duffy had hidden in a storage cabinet on the bridge. My shoulder was absolutely killing me, but I needed to pick him up and comfort him. I sat in the captain’s chair until he finally calmed down and fell asleep in my lap.
I set the autopilot for Galveston Bay and examined my shoulder as best as I could. Whatever had hit me didn't break my skin. Rubber bullet, maybe a mini bean bag? I don't know how many others had actually been fired, four, five, maybe more. I lost count after I went for the mooring lines. I didn't notice any damage to the boat. Maybe Florida outlawed real bullets. I don't know. I felt vulnerable and invincible at the same time.
THIRTEEN