The Final Run of the Hawaiian Sol

Tim Holl needed more time, more money and a gun.

“Damn Greg!” Can’t this tin can go any faster?” The salt spray wind tossed Tim’s blonde hair as he looked back with wide eyes at the impending doom chasing them. Narrow at the shoulder, and wide at the hip, Tim looked like he should behind a desk, and not gripping the gunwale of a shadow boat racing against time, and fate across a dark ocean.

Tim and the boat captain Greg might have been the slowest rum runners in the entire county of San Diego, but tonight was their big break, and if everything went to plan, and they delivered the shipment by midnight, their lives could get back above water for the first time in years.

But that was before. Now they were screwed.

Both wine lovers, they had snuck into speakeasies through the first decade of Prohibition to raise a glass, or two. But once times turned desperate, the illegal liquor trade offered more than just a good time, it offered Tim a chance to support his struggling family.

He had loved to putter around with his boys in their old Model A car, teaching them how to drive, then fix it when it broke down. He even showed them how to get it started when his youngest lost the keys. Now he used it to run liquor from the beach into town, until ever the businessman, he came up with a bigger opportunity.

Tim had used his training as an accountant to run the numbers for Greg, roping his friend, an expert sailor, into using his old boat for the only work they could find through the latest economic ‘panic’ when half of the town was unemployed, and the other half flat broke.

A gun shot rang out, then another followed by a sharp ping! as a bullet ricocheted off a metal rail of the boat. They turned back to see a long cigarette boat in their wake, gaining on them as if it was not bound by the laws of physics, floating over the waves like a gray hulled demon.

“They’re getting closer! Do you have any weapons on this boat?” Tim called out, diving to search under ropes and pieces of extra machinery in the storage bin.

Tim and Greg had just picked up a shipment from Malahat, the five-masted schooner anchored out on ‘rum row’ just past the three mile marker defining international waters. Holding a cargo of over 50,000 cases of imported liquor, the Malahat, and others like it, served as floating warehouses for runners desperate, or stupid enough to brave the Coast Guard gauntlet, and avoid the mafia who controlled smuggling throughout southern California.

Tim had finagled a deal with a visiting convention of American Legion veterans to provide them with 500 cases, but only if Tim could deliver it all by midnight for the party the next day.

Tim prayed Greg’s old but reliable 40 footer, the Hawaiian Sol would stay seaworthy on their race back to serve the veterans’ insatiable demand for hooch.

The once fishing boat, now filled with hundreds of cases of Canada’s best whisky, French wine, and English gin slammed over and over through the waves as they raced time and certain death toward the bright lights of San Diego.

“How ‘bout a fishing gaff?” Greg ducked as another shot pinged off the hardtop above his head. Long and lanky, he twisted back to steal a glance through the moon-lit night at the boat on their tail. “Oh no, I recognize that boat. That’s Pat Shipley, the Silver Wolf! After the last time he caught us, and stole our whole cargo, he threatened to slit our necks if he ever saw us again. God, he scares me, he’s a sociopath. ” Greg cried, fear darkening his voice. “Tim, you said you talked to him, smoothed it out? Why is he shooting at us!”

Tim thought back to their ‘talk’, when they met up at the Red Sails Inn. Less of a negotiation, it was more of a string of threats, Pat’s small child-like hands waved a huge colt revolver around like a baton, conducting the symphony of Tim and Greg’s requiem. Tim could only listen as Pat, with a faint odor of boiled cabbage, cursed him up and down, describing ever more elaborate and gruesome tortures on the two men if he found them rum running off his beach ever again.

“Must be a misunderstanding-” Tim finally said.

“Pat don't mess around! You heard about Bond right?” Greg shouted over his shoulder, trying to hold the awkward top-heavy boat straight in the choppy waves. “Pat caught him running liquor onto his beach. He cut his ears off, and his nose. Then he scalped him-”

“-Oh for god's sake, stop! I get it. Come on, you have got to have a gun!”

“Know what, I do!” Greg shouted, waving to a far locker in the back of the boat. “In the safety bin!” Tim moved several cases of whiskey out of the way, then threw up the hatch, tossing life vests, and the life buoy out of the boat. The cold metal against his hand brought a renewed confidence they had a chance to get out of this. With a real weapon he could defend the boat, and have a fighting chance to live through the night. He pulled out a fat barreled pistol.

“A flare gun? All you have is a flare gun?” Tim's shoulders, and hopes sank as he stared at what was anything but a real weapon.

“You wanted a gun!” Greg shouted.

That's when the night turned again, swamping Tim's plans like a large swell crashing over a small boat.

With a loud popping sound, new lights, bright as day, suddenly turned on to their right, lighting up the white caps of the swells around them, and the cases of liquor on every spare foot of the deck. Both men turned, blocking the glare of the incandescent lights of the Coast Guard boat, towering above them just a few hundred yards off their starboard side. The beams of light swayed over the boat, shining on them like they were rats under a garbage can. Greg pulled back the throttle to idle the engine.

“This is the Coast Guard.” A loudspeaker echoed across the water “Heave-to and prepare to be boarded.”

The cigarette boat chasing them spun sideways in a sweeping arc right up next to them. Tim’s eyes caught Pat’s, piercing blue darts of fire. He gave Tim an evil sneer before gunning the boat’s engine and he took off, vanishing into the night.

“Out of the frying pan into the fire.” Greg whispered under his breath, raising both hands up to give in to the arrest.

Tim couldn’t get arrested, he had too much riding on this money. An exceptional and highly regarded accountant, his job, and all the successful businesses he had audited burnt up in smoke after the market crash last fall.

Even worse, he had put his entire life’s savings into the ever rising stock market, an easy bet on a growing, vibrant economy that could never fail. His investments, all sure bets, had collapsed, the paper certificates now only good for kindling for the fire.

Tim had hid it all from his wife and two sons, unable to face the shame of not being enough. He couldn’t find work in the factory queues, it was all too obvious his thin shoulders and soft hands were good only for pushing numbers across a leather-bound ledger, not for pulling freight down the loading docks. He dressed each morning in his suit and tie only to find buyers for their liquor in the red-light district of Stingaree. This was biggest sale yet, and his last chance to prove to his family that he could still be a provider.

Tim slapped Greg across the shoulder. “We’re not caught yet! Follow Pat- turn and run!”

Greg paused as his eyes flicked between Tim and the Coast Guard ship. “Why not- this night can't get worse! ” Greg leaned into the wheel to get the boat turned, while throwing the throttle forward. They swirled away in a bobbing wake.

“Stop or we will shoot.” The loudspeaker crackled at their backs.

After a few minutes Tim looked back. “How are they staying close?”

Greg stole a glance. “I've never seen a coast guard boat that fast! Those six-bits can’t go more than 12 knots. Too big, too slow, almost double the size of my boat. They must have added a motor to that one. I told you we needed the new engine!” Greg slammed his hand on the dashboard.

Tim had heard all about it, most of the other go-fast boats were using the surplus airplane engines, the 400 horse Liberty V-12. Greg had practically drooled over the motors when they looked at them last week, eager to get the chance to upgrade his boat. But Tim wanted to wait for more runs to cover the cost.

Tim had the flare gun in his hand now. He had no options, time was slipping fast, like a mooring line running loose through his fingers. They had turned into San Diego Bay, but still had a long way to go.

“What time is it? Greg asked.

“What?” Tim spun, confused how Greg knew his thoughts.

“What time is it, right now!”

“It’s, 11:35.” Tim said, his shoulders curled in on himself. He’d never get these cases to the American Legion hall in time.

“This just might work- hold on!” Greg spun the wheel sharp to the right .

“Where are you going!” Tim shouted, as he fell, landing on several cases of French wine.

Greg looked back after a few minutes and gave out a whoop. “They ran aground!”

“What?” Tim called out. He scrambled against the gunwale to stand up.

A rifle shot cracked, then a zipper of machine gun fire roared across the water, echoing in the salt air.

“They’re shooting at us!” Tim said after a chorus of dull thumps and splashes sounded just below him.

Greg pointed; the Coast Guard ship had stopped dead in the water.

“Low tide!” Greg broke into a deep laugh, slapping his knee. “This close to shore no one knows the ocean floor like me.”

Seeing Tim’s confusion, Greg went on. “The bay is shallow! My boat has almost no draft, just a few feet below water even with this cargo. That big ass coast guard ship got too excited chasing us and ran aground in the mud of the low tide!”

As if the boat was applauding as well, a clapping sound erupted from the middle of the craft, then moments later an acrid smell of burning oil flowed around them.

The boat slowed to a gentle stop in the middle of the dark water. Tim looked over at Greg in the dim light of the half moon and the few stars peering out from behind grey clouds. The boat listed to the port side as water bubbled in from gunshot holes. Tim climbed onto a nearby stack of liquor cases, as they bobbed unevenly in the rolling waves.

“Is that the engine?” Tim asked, not wanting to know the answer.

“Was, the engine. I must’ve pushed her too hard.” Greg wiped a tear from his wet cheeks. He pulled open the engine hatch and disappeared in the smoke billowing out of the compartment. “I’m sorry girl. I’m so sorry.”

Tim looked out into the darkness surrounding him and was ready to give up. His life, already bad, had turned into a disaster. Water lapped at his shoes as the boat began its inexorable fall to the ocean floor.

“Stop crying over the boat, and start crying over us! We’re stuck in a sinking boat, in the middle of the bay! We’re going to die!” Tim pointed the flare up in the sky, and pulled the trigger. A swirling dot of light flew up, full of hope and promise, hovering briefly before dropping without a sound into the ocean.

The sickly sweet odor of burnt oil smelled like broken dreams. Another plan up in smoke. As he waited for certain death, Tim just hoped it would be quick.

Greg looked out into the distance. “That’s the least of our problems.” He pointed out into the darkness. “There’s another rum runner, a cigarette boat headed our way.”

“Where?” Tim squinted into the night, trying to pick out the boat from the wine dark sea. A small, dim light moved faster than he thought possible right toward them. It must be Shipley, he had circled back, a shark smelling blood in the water.

“Damn.” Tim squeezed the empty flare gun in his fist. He had taken his shot, and it had fizzled out just like the flare. The cigarette boat pulled up, but it glowed a vibrant pink, instead of Pat’s silver-gray.

“Damn! Greg whispered. “That’s one of Derek Timm’s boats, he calls them the Pink Panther. He’s the Big Cheese, biggest rum runner in the whole county. We’re screwed!”

The long narrow boat slowed down and curled in, its motor purring like a hungry mountain lion.

A black-haired woman stood up waving, looking toward them both. Tim blinked at her beauty, her gestures familiar, but his mind couldn’t register the impossibility. Then two teenage boys jumped up behind her, both with oh so familiar brown eyes and tilted grins looking out from floppy brown hair.

“Erin?” Tim gulped. “Tyler, and Cam?” Tim’s brain seized, unable to process seeing his family on the water in front of him.

The cold water lapped at his thighs as they continued to sink into the ocean. “How did you get that boat?”

“Cam heard there was going to be a police raid at the American Legion event.” Erin said. “I thought you might need help-”

“I, uh, borrowed the boat dad.” Tyler tilted his head to the side with a sheepish smile.

“Derek will kill us!” Tim shouted.

“It was Derek’s- but I stole it from the Coast Guard impound lot. I figure we can paint it, change the name, no one will ever know. “ Tyler’s grin grew even wider. “I hot wired it just like you showed me Dad.”

“You knew.” Tim turned to his wife. “You knew the whole time.”

“I couldn’t let you do this alone.” Erin said. “ We’re family. We’re in this together.” She smiled.

“It’s probably fine,” Greg added. “Derek’s mafia, but he’s all bark no bite.” Greg turned to Tim. “He’s like a chihuahua, yap, yap, yap -”

“Come on! Quick, there isn’t much time. Your boat is sinking, and there’s a Coast Guard boat just over there-” Erin pointed.

Tim looked at the liquor cases surrounding him, some floating as the ocean rose up around him. Ever the accountant, he added up the cost in his head, he bought each case at Rum Row for $25, at the beach he’d make $40, and if he could get them to the American Legion he could double his money at $50 case. And it all was sinking.

“We need to save these cases!” Fighting against the ocean, Tim stacked a few boxes but fell when a swell hit the boat. The cases crashed against the gunwale and then launched into the ocean.

“We can get them dad,” Tyler shouted. “But you have to get off!”

Tim splashed through the saltwater filling the boat, tripping again. He had a choice; continue to try to do everything himself or let his family help. He looked up to the pink boat floating in front of him, while the boat he stood on eased further into the sea.

It was an easy choice. Tim felt all his anxiety melt away. Erin, and his family was everything he needed.

Tyler pulled one arm, and Cam the other and after several attempts they pulled Tim into the Pink Panther. He knew together, they could pull this off.

“Go grab those cases boys!”

His boys jumped over, and in quick efficient movements they rescued most of the liquor cases.

“Let's go!” Tim shouted to Greg, unwilling to leave his boat.

Greg finally let go, grabbing a few items before he lurched up with an awkward jump, falling into the cigarette boat with a loud clink. At the bottom of the boat, Greg cuddled half a dozen bottles in his arms. “This is real French burgundy! Château Margaux, 1926- such a great vintage!”

“I christen this boat the ‘Hawaiian Sol II’ !” Tim said to cheers from Tyler and Cam.

Greg laughed, and Erin threw the throttle, headed for the bright lights and brighter future awaiting them in San Diego.