The day went by much as it would have ordinarily, the sun and the temperature climbing high enough to incessantly fry all creation, before the sun began its great descent and the temperature compromised a few degrees. I ran my finger down my report card and discovered that I was an A+ student, just scraping by in Science and excelling in Social Studies. It was probably more the work of all the Historical and Geographical lectures Grandpa used to give me than anything I was doing, but I still tried to keep on top of my schoolwork

When the final bell rang, signaling the end of English - which was really just an I-will-miss-you-very-much-but-I-hope-you-have-fun-at-highschool talk, anyway - and the end of school, I scrambled to my feet along with everyone else, but my teacher, Mr. Johnson, an elderly man with square-rimmed glasses, held me back.

"Lee," he said, resting a hand on my shoulder, "You have a lot of talent for this," he indicated the the notebook - which I instantly recognized as my notebook - lying open on his desk, "writing. I think you would make a very interesting reporter."

Interesting? A little vague considering how many different varieties of interesting there are. I opened my mouth to tell him this, but he held up a hand for quiet.

"You can look into it. But the point I really wanted to talk to you about is the unit we did in September on narration. Remember, that was the month you were out? If it's not too much trouble, I was hoping that you could do it over the summer, like a journal of the next few months."

A journal? I chewed my lip. Of course I couldn't refuse, that was out of the question, but what was I going to write about anyway? My boring summer stuck at home in Tampa Bay, wondering if my grandmother was ever going to contact me? When I'd come back to school after my highly unsuccessful month with the psychiatrist, Mr. Johnson had filled me in on all the assignments my class had done to date, including the narration project. After some, discussion, in which I had stubbornly refused to give up completely on the project, Mr. Johnson had agreed to let me do it at some later date. Grandpa's death had just felt too recent at the time, like an image imprinted on my mind. Too fresh.

"But, Mr. Johnson, how-"

"Ms. McKinley will be your English teacher next year at the high school. You can give it to her and she will pass it on to me. So," he smiled kindly over the tops of his glasses, "will you do it?"

I didn't see how I could not do it, but maybe the question was rhetorical. I nodded, vigorously. After all, maybe Grandma Bee would pull through - which was something she had a knack for - and until then, I shouldn't assume anything. I nodded vigorously. "Yessir."

"Thank you. I hope you have a nice summer, Lee."

I left the school building and, bidding farewell to my cluster of friends, walked home in a good mood. It was a beautiful day outside, cloudless, the wind blowing in from the West, and the setting sun beaming down onto the street below. I didn't even mind climbing the steep gray hill that wound through downtown, leading towards my house, which was usually my favorite topic of complaint. I felt as if a huge balloon was rising up inside of me, ready to burst with relief. It was summer, I'd gotten through the school year, and hopefully I would be going to Grandma Bee's house in Jamaica as soon as we hit July. Then I would know that she still cared about me. And then, perhaps, I thought to myself, just perhaps, I will be able to sail the Treasurer again. It was a hope that I nurtured fervently all the way up the hill.

My balloon slowly deflated as I reached my squat, blue, two-story house. The door was open - because Mom, being Grandpa and Grandma's daughter, despises using air conditioning - and through it, I could see Mom seated at the table doing the bills. As I stepped hesitantly through the doorway, she looked up and gave me a tired smile.

"Are you okay?” she asked me gently.

I shrugged, dropped my backpack into a chair and opened the fridge, "Sure."

"Lee," she set her pencil down on the table and pushed her hair away from her face, her lips set in a decisive line, "I think we need to talk. About you. I know your grandfather's death was hard for you, but I didn't realize -"

I slammed the refrigerator door shut and whipped around to face her, a lump closing up my throat. "I don't want to talk about it," I choked out, my voice rising, "You think you know everything about me, everything, but you don't!"

"Lee, no, listen -"

"Forget it," I snapped, grabbing a jacket and heading for the door, "I'm going out."

Mom hesitated. "All right, but be back before dinner."

But I was already gone.

Once I was outside, I wasn't really sure where I wanted to go. I just wanted to be away where I could think. I tied my jacket, a dark blue windbreaker, around my waist, and took off down the street. I wasn't really paying attention to my feet, but I figured they'd take me where I wanted to go.

I'm tall for my age, and skinny. My Mom calls me a beanpole, but I look a lot like her when she was my age. I've got her light brown hair, which I keep tucked into a loose ponytail at the back of my head, and her straight nose, her freckles and thin eyebrows. I have my Dad's short, stubby fingers, but that's about it, and my eyes can't decide whether they want to be green like Mom's or brown like Dad's, no matter how persistently I hope for green. Mom always tells me I'm pretty, and I secretly wish that were true, but I really don't believe there's much hope for me anyway. Mom is far prettier than I am.

I stopped on the corner by 'Ye Olde Spice Shop' - a shop that's been around since there were far too many 'e's in the world - and looked in through the window. The shop was closed, the smudged glass dark, but I could still see the display, stacked high with jars of cinnamon, cloves, and other spices.

Cinnamon. My grandparents had always called me Cinnamon after my coarse, spice-brown locks. I took a deep breath in, as if I could smell the cinnamon through the glass and bring back all the memories...


Grandpa squeezed the teabag in his stubby, calloused fingers, draining every last drop of the craved Jamaican tea into his cup, and wafting the rich smell of cinnamon around the sunlit kitchen. I sighed happily from my perch on the counter and swung my feet, taking a large gulp of my own tea.

Grandpa inhaled deeply and surveyed the calendar on the far wall with the air of someone who has all the time in the world. "Cinnamon is my favorite spice," he announced to the kitchen, "It always seems to be wherever it's needed most, for whoever needs it most," he smiled at me through the steam rising from the rim of his cup,"Not to mention it has a natural sweetness." He winked at me and tipped his tea into his mouth.


I opened my eyes and looked into my own grinning face reflected in the window glass, which immediately stopped grinning as soon as it noticed I was looking at it. The spices looked back unfeelingly. Then I shook my head vigorously. This will not do, I told myself sternly, no more coffee-breaks down Memory Lane, no matter how brief they may be. I resolved to pay more attention to where my thoughts went.

I continued my journey down the road, back past the Middle School, the post office, and eventually - though I wasn't at all surprised - found myself standing by the waterside. The harbor was empty at this time of the day; all the fishermen had docked up for the night and were at home eating dinner. And technically, I shouldn't have been there either, because a teenage girl hanging around the docks at 5:30 in the evening looks awfully strange to the surrounding houses, and I didn't really want my parents to have to explain to the police what I was doing. I glanced at the houses behind me, but no one appeared to be spying on me.

I closed my eyes, breathing in the familiar scents of the Bay: the slap of waves against the legs of the docks, the salt on the air, the sweet smell of seagrass...

I couldn't take it anymore. Breaking into a run, I raced along the endless rows of bobbing boats - big ones, little ones, sailboats, motorboats - until I reached the place where my Treasurer lay waiting, at the end of one of the longer wharfs.

She was an impressive vessel, so I thought, just over twenty feet long, and made entirely of wood. She had a bathroom - or a "head", as we old, salty sailors call them - in the bow, with a tank that Grandpa had installed himself, and benches along either of her flanks. Okay, she wasn't one of those fancy, geared up, modern things that you see sailing about - she was made from an old rowboat after all. Her white paint was completely worn off in some places, as was the blue trim, her single sail gray and fraying, and her tiller did need replacing, but she sailed like a bird, through rain or shine.

I slowed to a silent walk as I approached, so that my feet wouldn't slam on the slatted planking, then stopped barely ten feet away.

That's when I saw, in the dimming light of the sun sinking into the Bay, the dark figure bending over in the bow.

"Hey!" I said, before I could stop myself, my voice echoing across the empty boatyard, "What are you doing on my boat?"

The boy, who was about my age, jumped and straightened, staring at me as if I were a ghost. Then he recovered and narrowed his eyes menacingly. "I don't know," he muttered lamely.

He had a thick, husky voice, though not exactly what you would call deep, with a defensive tone that made me think that he was used to this sort of question. Leaning forward, I saw that he looked vaguely Hispanic, with curly black hair and very dark eyes. He was tall, well over six feet, and ridiculously skinny. He wore a red goose-down vest - as if he'd need one in Florida - over a gray t-shirt and khaki shorts.

"Oh, you don't, do you?" I mused skeptically, "So, what happened then? Magic?"

"No," he answered, looking at me calculatingly, then added, "I was just looking around the deck that's all. Quite a nice boat you have here."

I wasn't buying it; there was definitely something fishy about this whole thing, but I acknowledged the compliment anyway. "Thank you," I said proudly, "She used to be the lifeboat of a 1942 cargo ship called the Jewel, but she was salvaged after the boat was retired, and now she's called the Treasurer. She sails like the wind." I was going to say more, but then I realized Mom could've already talk to someone about selling the so-called "nice boat". And this could be a potential costumer. That definitely would have put things over the top. Of course, if he were thinking of buying it, he would most likely live around here, and I'd never seen him before in my life.

"Where're you from?"

He looked up suspiciously. "Washington."

"The state?" I whistled in astonishment. I'd never been North of Tampa Bay in my life, "What are you doing in Florida?"

When he didn't answer, I looked down at the deck, feeling embarrassed, wondering if I'd been rude. Mom always told me that I should think more carefully before I speak, and I certainly didn't want to offend anybody. I was about to look up again when I noticed something on the planks in front of me: wet, bare footprints, backtracking all the way to the beginning of the dock. I glanced at the boy's feet, which were also shoeless, and something dawned on me so quickly, I was horrified that I hadn't realized it before.

"You're that kid they're looking for, aren't you?" I said, jerking my head back towards the city lights shining behind me, "The Barefoot Bandit."

I hesitated and he stepped back, as if preparing to run, and thus confirming my suspicion. If there was one thing my grandfather taught me, it was that the person who thinks he's guilty is the first to run away. I stared at him, fascinated, wondering how such a normal-looking person could actually be a criminal on the lam. He met my gaze fully for a moment, before his eyes flickered down the dock to the city.

"What on earth are you doing on my boat? Actually, don't tell me. I think I can figure it out for myself."

I took a deep breath and opened my mouth to yell, knowing someone would be there before he could get three yards. "He-"

Of course, it was too late before I realized that he didn't intend on going anywhere.

Fast as a deer, and equally as nimble, the bandit sprang forward, pinning me against a post, one hand clapped over my mouth. I twisted in alarm, trying my best to bite his hand and kick him the shin simultaneously, but to no avail. The crazy boy was strong as an ox.

"One more sound, kiddo," he hissed at me angrily, "And I swear you are going to be taking an unplanned swim."

I considered asking which of us wasn't planning on it, now that he'd already mentioned it, but decided this was one of those times where I should keep my mouth shut. I stopped struggling and he continued. "Yes, I'm the Barefoot Bandit. Barefoot Moore or whatever. But listen," he insisted as I rolled my eyes, "I'm on a sort of mission. A treasure hunt. No really...Anyway, here's the deal: if you'll lend me your boat, I'll give you a fourth of the treasure. And, yes, I'll hold my end of the bargain. Agreed?"

I glared at him, not believing a word of it. As if I would let a thief sail away with my boat and ever expect to see it again? No Siree, even if he did have a reputation for "returning stolen items a couple days after their disappearance." But what choice did I really have? Whether I agreed or not, I still might end up taking a dip in the drink.

He took his hand away from my mouth. Before the thought had even crossed my mind, my mouth was blurting it out: "Only if I can come."

Stupid, stupid me. Why didn't I stop to think? Why? The boy looked alarmed and stepped back, scanning me up and down, probably wondering what I could possibly be good for. I, the stubborn, the willful, and the hopelessly pig-headed. I crossed my arms and waited, pursing my lips. If he said 'no', I was going to slug him, and call for the police. Of course, if he said 'yes'...I hadn't quite gotten that far yet.

As if reading my thoughts, the boy nodded, "I could use the help."

Grimacing like this was the worst decision he'd ever made - and it probably was - he gestured for me to get onto the Treasurer. I stared at him, dazed, wondering who in their right mind would agree with a strange girl who wanted to turn them in to the cops. Then I realized the Bandit probably wasn't in his right mind. I paused for another moment. My back was to the city - I could turn around, I thought, run home and tell the police that I'd had a friendly chat with the guy that was stealing my boat. Then I thought I'd be damned if I let anybody sail off with my Treasurer. So, thinking so hard that my knees were shaking, I stepped aboard my beloved sailboat, and the boy loosed the ropes from the piling. As the small boat drifted away into the twilight, with me on it, I thought it was the craziest decision I would ever make. I couldn't have been more wrong.

I seated my sorry self on the far end of the port bench, and tried to act like I wasn't about to collapse into a quivering blob of Jell-O in the middle of the deck. The result was that I felt like I'd just had fifteen cups of caffeine. Haltingly, I glanced forward at the fast approaching lights of St. Petersburg, and the network of bridges that lead out of Tampa Bay. Then I craned my neck around to see my home city, skyscrapers lit, the roar of the International Airport just a few minutes away. What were Mom and Dad doing right now? Mom was probably cooking, making something with green beans, since we had an abundance in the fridge, and Dad had just come home from his office and was sitting at the kitchen table fussing over some part for his car. I gulped, my throat feeling stiff and raw. It was no use wishing they wouldn't worry, but I at least hoped that they knew me well enough by now to know that I'd be back. Maybe if everything turned out according to my plan - my shredded, soggy, gooey excuse for a plan - and the Barefoot Bandit didn't ditch me at the next stop, I could give my parents my share of any treasure there was to be had – that is, if there actually was a treasure.

I remembered what Grandpa had said to me almost a year ago now: Don't keep her forever. But forever wasn't now, and I wasn't about to release my hold on my last solid memory of my grandfather. Trust Grandpa to come up with all those nagging little comments about doing the right thing. Besides, I couldn't be in any real danger, could I? Somehow, this would have to work.

The Bandit had somehow managed to hoist the sail by himself – as if I was going to help him – and after he'd latched the tiller into place, he threw himself onto the bench beside it and kicked his feet up on my bench. I scooted even farther away and looked around.

"Do you sail?" I asked, interested. No one at school even knew how to test the wind.

"Obviously. Do you?"

"Very well, thank you," I answered smugly, slightly miffed at his arrogant tone. He looked at me with equal annoyance, then looked stubbornly away. We sat in silence for a moment, passing under the Howard Franklin Bridge, neither one of us wanting to be the first to speak to the other. Finally, I decided to be the mature one.

"Er, so where are we going?"

"The Yucatan Peninsula."

"In Mexico," I said, "That's a long way! Why are we going there?"

"Because we're gonna need supplies," he snapped.

“Why not get supplies in Cuba?”

“None of your business.”

I waited, eyebrows raised, a trick that I'd learned from Grandma, through many years of observation, and which never failed to make the target highly uncomfortable. The Bandit sighed in frustration, and, reaching into a grubby black backpack at his feet, pulled out a small electric lantern and flicked it on.

"Are you always so pushy? The police are looking out for me in Cuba. I'm trying to edge around them to the Bahamas."

"The Bahamas?" I asked, leaning forward. I wondered if he'd be stopping by Jamaica.

"Yes."

"Is that where you think your treasure is?"

He shot me a glare. "It's not where I think it is, it's where I know it is."

"How do you know?"

"Grrr." He pulled a compass out of his backpack, and examined it in the light of his lamp. Then he set it on the wide part of the railing and pushed the tiller a couple degrees to starboard. He glanced up at me and heaved a sigh, "Look. Why don't you go to sleep or something?"

"What about you?" I asked suspiciously.

"I'm going to keep sailing until I think I should stop."

"You won't throw me overboard while I'm sleeping?"

He snorted into the lamplight. "No", he said, "I won't."

I was hungry as death, but my exhaustion was worse, even though it couldn't have been more than 5:00. Not wanting to lie down, in case my comrade decided to go back on his word, I tilted my head back and closed my eyes. I will not go to sleep, I vowed, I will not go to sleep.

"I'm not that bad," the Bandit insisted quietly, "Really."

I ignored him, and concentrated on not falling asleep.

I managed to stay awake for another three hours, both by telling myself that I wouldn't sleep and by adding that a quick nap couldn't hurt. The fear and the confusion of the last twenty minutes seemed to have taken up all my energy, leaving me with a feeling of utter emptiness and a gnawing sense of despair. I had never felt so tired so early in my life, but the rest of me didn't seem to care, and so the last thing I remember before I fell asleep was the boat bumping into something in the water, and thinking groggily, I have to escape. I have to go home...

I awoke the next morning feeling very sore and extremely hungry. I rolled my shoulders a little, hoping that would help. It didn't. What on earth was wrong with my bed? It wasn't usually like this; it was usually a bit more comfortable...quite a lot more comfortable, actually...I rolled over to the left, trying to stretch out and – whump! I landed on the floor of the boat.

Very slowly, I opened my eyes and blinked at the bright blue sky above me. It was hot, very hot, and the sun was already high over my head, my t-shirt sticking to my skin with humidity. Suddenly, I frowned, and listened. The waves sounded odd, as if they were crashing up on a beach, instead of bobbing in the middle of an ocean. It wasn't until I saw a palm frond swaying to my far left, that I realized we were on an island.

It was a small one; I recognized it as being part of Florida's cluster of itsy-bitsy, islands just thirty miles to the west of Tampa Bay. Actually, this island was more a clump of palm trees than a real beach, but it was enough to moor the Treasurer. She was pulled up onto the beach and tied securely, almost completely hidden from view.

I stood up carefully. Much as I disliked the Bandit, I had to admire his organization in stowing away the Treasurer: the sail had been taken down and carefully rolled, the deck was clean of debris like a good deck should be, and each rope was coiled around its respective cleat, hook, or pulley. All this had been done without waking me up, which is a pretty impressive feat in itself. I'm a pretty light sleeper.

The thief himself lay in the stern, fast asleep against the tiller. I watched him for a moment to see if he was really asleep, but, seeing no signs of wakefulness, I continued to stare. He looked so...well, peaceful, a polar opposite of the cold, stingy boy he was when he was awake. His face had relaxed; the frown lines had released their hold on his eyebrows, revealing larger, deeper smile lines around his mouth and eyes, and making him look almost vulnerable. Almost. There was still a hard, bitterness to him, even as he slept, that made me want to stand as far away as possible. How had someone who looked so nice, turned into someone so hard?

I shook my head vigorously, swallowing hard. A large, tense knot was growing in my chest, next to my heart, and it seemed to have a beat of it's own, growing tighter and tighter with every passing second, until I wanted to scream out loud. But my body didn't seem to know this, and continued to perform as it always did in the mornings. My hands rubbed the sleep out of my eyes, then stretched up over my head to relieve the tension, and, after a moments hesitation, crept into the tiny closet that served as the ship's bathroom. But that was about where it ended. I shut the door, feeling hollow and not quite real, as if I were something inanimate like a toaster or a marionette. Then suddenly, as if someone had snipped the strings that were holding me up, I slumped to the floor and buried my head in my hands. For a moment, I just sat there, letting my heart do a little freak-out dance and holding back a couple stray tears. Then I took a shaky breath and tried to feel a little less mind-bogglingly terrified than I was. How could this happen? How could this possibly happen? This didn't happen to anybody, but it happened to me. Just as my life was getting back to normal – or as normal as it was ever going to get – this came about, as if somebody had snatched a perfectly organized ball of yarn out of my hands, tangled it up into a hopeless mess, and thrown it back to me. I continued sitting still, concentrating on breathing regularly and not shivering violently.

When I'd finally gotten my heart beating at an acceptable tempo, I lifted my head and looked around the room. It was just as I remembered with its peeling, blue painted walls, the wooden shelves stacked with knick-knacks, the tiny steel thing in the corner that was supposed to be a toilet, the can of air-freshener tipped over in the corner, spilling the sleepy scent of vanilla into the air...not that I ever spent much time in the Treasurer's bathroom, of course.

I drew a deep breath. First of all, I needed an escape plan. No way was I going to stick around and wait for someone to hurry up and arrest the bandit while I could be doing something on my own. Swimming for land obviously wasn't an option: all I could see for miles around was a rippling expanse of blue, and you can see pretty far on the ocean. Also, I'd never actually met a shark, but it wasn't anywhere on my list of planned encounters. But the Bandit would definitely never let me out of his sight unless...we were on the same team. Unless I gained his trust.

I bit my lip. That would mean having to lie, which, as I mentioned before, is not one of my strong suits. It also meant possibly getting myself into an even worse situation that I was already in. But so far, it was all I had.

One thing was certain, however: I needed to be the general in this situation. I needed to be the negotiator, I needed to figure out the where, the what, the who, and the why, and I needed to be strong. No more break downs. I am a rock.

I took another deep breath, stood up, and opened the door, before I could change my mind and stay in the Head for the rest of my life. I seated myself on the bench, opposite from the Barefoot Bandit, and, finding a comfortable position, waited for him to wake up.

He did, eventually. He sat bolt upright, breathing sharply through his nose like people do when something scares them, clutching the Treasurer's sides as if the world were coming to an end.

"Do you always wake up like that?" I asked, doing my best to sound cool and skeptical, while my heart was doing a tap dance in my throat.

"No," he blushed, his eyes darting around feverishly. He seemed to relax – or at least, go back to normal – and his face tightened. He looked at me suspiciously, "What did you say your name was again?"

"Er, Lee," I answered, slightly taken aback. It took me a split second to realize that maybe I shouldn't have told him my real name.

"Yeah?" He raised his eyebrows.

"Simmons," I concluded, "What's yours?"

He frowned. "You already know my name."

"Yes, but that's not your true one. It can't be."

He looked at me approvingly, but ignored my question. Instead he said, "Call me Barefoot," and that was that. I decided to let it go for now.

"So why are we here?"

He shrugged and answered casually, "Because we are. I got as far from the mouth of the bay as I could before I decided to tie up here, on this..." he looked judgmentally at the little heap of sand we were parked on,"island...?"

I nodded and looked out towards the horizon. My home was just a couple hour's journey East from here; with this strong wind I could be there in less time. All I needed was control of this ship. My ship.

"So how long do you think it'll take to get to Yucatan?"

The Bandit, or Barefoot, as he preferred to be called, chewed his lip. "Oh, I'd say only a week or more, if this wind holds up."

A week or more. Good. I'd have plenty of time to prove my worth so that I could walk free in Mexico. I wasn't too keen on actually stealing anything, if that's what it took to be on the same side as a bandit, but I sure wasn't going to let him run off with my boat.

"D'you want some applesauce?"

"Some what?" I asked distracted.

"Applesauce," he answered politely, then grinned, "You know, a typically reddish mush made from the squashed innards of a generally tree-grown fruit? What do you think I eat? Seaweed?"

"Your fingernails?" I offered tentatively, surprised by the sincerity of his tone, and was rewarded by a short laugh.

Barefoot handed me a rather large can of applesauce, which he retrieved from under the bench and lent me the use of the can-opener on a very nice pocketknife with a worn wooden handle. My fingers ran over the capital H carved into the varnish. I tucked this information into a corner of my brain, and set to work with the can-opener. It took me a while - I'd never used a pocketknife can-opener before, I'd never had cause to - but eventually the lid popped off and, grabbing one of the spoons the Bandit was offering me, I dug in ravenously.

Barefoot opened his like an old pro, of course, and began to wolf down his breakfast like he'd never see another. Still, the silence was so tense, I could practically taste it, underneath the sweet, tangy flavor of applesauce.

Finally, I cleared my throat and searched around for something conversational to say. My grandparents had always taught me to make the best of a bad situation, so I gave it a shot. "Um, so is it always applesauce?"

"Nope," he answered, his mouth full, "I've got other stuff too. All canned though."

He pointed under the bench opposite me. I leaned down to look. Stacked on the floor, shaded by the slatted wooden bench and strapped in place by two criss-crossed bungee cords, were about forty 15oz cans, and four gallons of water. I scanned the labels, my eyes wide: there were beans and carrots, tuna fish, cranberry sauce, spinach, pineapple, chicken, and, of course, applesauce. I sat back up and looked at the Bandit, impressed.

"You've certainly got a good food supply, that's for sure."

"Yep," he looked smug, "It took a while to strap those in right. That's what I was doing when you came along."

"But what exactly are you doing here? What is it about this treasure that's such a big deal?"

His expression had been relatively relaxed, and for a moment, I'd felt like I could have been talking to a friend, but now his eyes hardened again as his gaze met mine, defiant as always.

"That's something I can't tell you."

"But you're stealing!"

He turned his head away hurriedly, his frown returning. "Yes," he said quietly, "I know. But I have to. I made a promise."

I snorted, but dropped the subject for the time being. It struck me as odd that a thief didn't like stealing, but odd seemed to be the key word for this situation. The Bandit was odd in more ways than one, but there was something about him that intrigued me. Maybe it's the same for all bandits, but the Barefoot Bandit had something about him, some aura, that made me think he was hiding something. A secret. I made a list of things I knew about him: he was a thief. His real name started with H. He knew his way around a sailboat. He enjoyed coming up with exuberant ways to define applesauce...well, it was a start.

"Uh oh," I snapped my head around to look at the Bandit. He was staring nervously at some point beyond my right shoulder. I looked, cautiously.

I saw it immediately: a small, double-masted schooner about half a mile to the South of us, drifting back and forth in the water like it was waiting for us to start.

The Bandit looked at me. "Last chance to get off," he warned.

I stared at him. "Here? Are you crazy?"

He shrugged. "I'm not the person to ask," he glanced at the island, "A helicopter will probably be coming by sometime soon though. They'll be looking for you."

I glared. "I'm not going anywhere without this vessel," I snapped, "And if you don't like it, you should have thought of that before you decided to steal it."

He sighed and climbed up onto the bow to raise the sail. "Fine. Go untie us, then."

I scrambled out of the boat and loosed the knot, my sandals sinking into the wet sand. I straightened and looked off into the distance, back towards where I knew Tampa must be, somewhere.

"Let's go," Barefoot said impatiently. I glanced at the schooner, wondering. Rescue, perhaps? Should I jump up and down, shouting that I had the Barefoot Bandit, right here, ready for the arresting? Or should I make a swim for it, and hope that they wouldn't go sailing off in the other direction? I didn't have to have only two choices; I could do something dramatic, save myself from whatever lay ahead, and skip over the whole escape issue by doing something heroically stupid and daring that would make the headlines in the newspapers for weeks...
...I got into the boat.