The Island

The Judge arrived at the Club dock in time to see a very inebriated Harvey White step off the float, miss his dingy, and disappear with a plop into the dark water. Harvey breached the surface immediately like a small skinny whale, hissing, gasping and snorting for help. None-too-steady hands were there to haul him out. It was a messy job given the sobriety of the help and the added challenge of the soggy tux. In the end Harvey was more or less dragged up and on to the float on his belly, protesting all the way. He was loaded aboard his dinghy and shoved off with well wishes in the general direction of his boat and Marion. He would not be part of the hastily assembled search squadron.
The Club was known to be a party club and such things happened. It would have been amusing if the evening had not turned so serious. The Judge hoped the crew they'd pulled together to search the harbor would be up to the task.
Bruce Wright dropped into the Judge's dingy beside him, on the theory that four eyes were better than two, and also a precaution in light of Harvey White's surprise dunk. Backup. They set off to the left on a clockwise sweep of their end of the harbor, another boat going counter-clockwise, and a third striking out into the middle of the fleet.
The water, dark and murky before, now came alive here and there from the rays of the moon in full show above. It shot streaks of silver across the harbor and the sea beyond. Boaters returned from late dinners ashore and began to start generators and turn on cabin and spreader lights. These bathed the tide-swept harbor around their boats in an eerie half-light, artificial and cold.
After 20 minutes the Judge and Bruce had made two circles of the fleet, run into the other two search boats three times, and everyone had come up dry. So far the three boat crews had stayed dry too, despite a flask liberally passed between the other two boats.
On further reflection, none of them were dry, mused the Judge. He was normally a stickler for no alcohol while in command of a boat, however small. Bruce rarely drank except at parties. But between them they'd put away a considerable liquor locker of booze at the Casino Ball, as had the other boat crews. The Judge had decided to ignore this since there was really no one else available to look for Daisy across the harbor except for the solitary Harbor Patrol boat.
The Harbor Patrol boat was sweeping the outer anchorage in front of Descanso Beach. They had constant radio contact. So far no luck there either. No Daisy. No Dinghy. No "Marty's sons".
The Judge suggested they expand their search to the south, along Lover's Cove and perhaps a bit beyond, toward Pebbly Beach. Bruce concurred.
The Judge pointed his dingy in that direction while Bruce radioed in their plan. It was close to 11:00, but the lights of the town were still ablaze along the water. Rays of red and blue and purple from the shop signs danced on the top of the small waves as the tide swept in. Music wafted from several bars, and small knots of tourists, some with fringe ringed straw hats from Luau Larry's, meandered here and there along the boardwalk. These holiday weekenders were determined to party hearty.
Lover's Cove was empty except for fish, several of whom scooted under the boat, attracted by Bruce's portable light casting long beams around the Cove. No dinghy. No Daisy. No sons.
Leaving the Cove they headed further south along the coast line. The lights of the town disappeared behind them. The water and the night here were both black. Punctuated only by the rays from the moon and the white wake they left behind. The wake rapidly folded back into the black without a trace. There was a light breeze sweeping in from across the channel. It chilled the Judge. It was that kind of night.
They skimmed the water about 40 feet off Pebbly Beach, just outside the line of small soft breakers, Bruce shining his light alternately along the rocky be