Page 37 of Untamed Coast

Willard ushered the men toward the door. “Okay, well, have fun. Stay in touch, I’d really like to hear how this turns out and what you decide about the gold. Oh, can I have a phone number to give my buddy at the paper? Strictly voluntary—you’re not obligated. It’s just a favor for a friend.”

Marco handed the officer one of his boat cards with his name, email, and cell number on one side and a photo of Radio Flyer on the other.

Marco and Bill were unloading their groceries into a dock cart when Marco’s cell phone rang. Area code 907—Alaska.

Damn, must be that reporter. That was fast.

Marco considered letting it go to voicemail but decided to answer anyway. “This is Marco.”

“Hey, Mr. Franco, I’m a reporter with the Juneau Empire. I hear you had an interesting experience and I wanted to see if I could get a quick interview.” The man on the other end of the line spoke at a frantic pace. “It’ll just take a minute, and it could make a great local interest story.”

Marco mouthed “reporter” to Bill. “Could we do this in a few days? We’re at the harbor, just loading up to head out.”

“I just happen to be in the harbor office right now.” The reporter’s voice was way too chipper. “Where are you?”

Marco mouthed “He’s HERE!” as he pointed down at the asphalt. Marco didn’t see a way out. “Must be a slow news day in Juneau. Sure, we’re in the parking lot at the top of the ramp. I’m wearing a blue blazer and XTRATUFs.”

Marco disconnected the call. “Last thing I want is a bunch of publicity. People come up here for privacy.”

Bill shrugged and dropped the last bag of groceries into the dock cart. “Well, don’t talk to him, then.”

A short man in a plaid flannel shirt and khaki cargo pants emerged from the harbor office and came toward them, walking fast with tiny steps. “Mr. Franco!” He beamed, his right hand outstretched even though he still had about fifteen feet to cover.

Marco rolled his eyes at Bill, then grabbed the handle of a dock cart. “Hey there, uh, I didn’t get your name. We’re just headed down to the boat with our supplies. We can chat as we walk.” He kept his stride swift, forcing the reporter to follow. The three continued down the ramp to the dock and to the slip where Radio Flyer was tied up.

The reporter pulled out a notebook. “The name’s Jake.” He readied his pen. “Your full name is Marconi Franco? I understand you found gold in a radio?”

Marco stepped onto Radio Flyer and opened a storage locker. “Yep. I go by Marco.” He took out his freshwater fill hose and began connecting it to a hydrant on the dock.

The reporter stepped aside. “How exciting! Can you tell me more about that?”

Marco opened the fill port on the side of the boat with a tool that looked like a flat metal fish. “Well, I was helping with the search for the missing woman off Chichagof when I found an old radio near an abandoned shack. Turns out there was a small bag of gold inside.”

The reporter wrote something in his book, flipped a page, and looked back at Marco. “Can you tell me more about that?”

Marco turned on the hydrant and began filling Radio Flyer’s freshwater tank. He had a watermaker on board that could purify seawater into drinking water, but he liked to leave the harbor with his tank full anyway when he was headed out for several days.

Bill had apparently found a hiding place and was not coming to bail him out.

Marco decided to get it over with. He told the reporter about hearing the distress call, stumbling onto Radioville, finding the old radio chassis, and he and Bill discovering the bag of gold hidden inside.

The reporter made a couple more notes and turned another page in his notebook. “So, what was it about finding this old radio that got your attention?”

Marco wanted to get rid of the reporter, but figured the fastest way was just to finish. “I was out there listening for distress calls from the…Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? You see, my father was a ham—an amateur radio hobbyist—since back in the sixties. He taught me about radio. I’m actually named after Marconi—the guy who invented radio. Anyway, I’ve been a ham since I was a teenager. Somebody told me about Radioville, and it matched something in the distress call…This guy Joe Baxter who ran Radioville had been in World War I in the Signal Corps. After the war was the first time radio was used at all for public or commercial use. It would have been a pretty cutting-edge thing back then to set up a radio link between that kind of remote operation, the mines, and the rest of civilization. I thought it was really interesting history—or radio history, anyway. Maybe I should write a book about it.”

The reporter looked up from his notebook. “Oh, are you a writer?”

Marco chuckled. “No, not really. I’m a widowed, retired boater with too much time on my hands, but I do think that radio enthusiasts would find it interesting.”

“What are you retired from?” The reporter wouldn’t stop.

“I really need to get going,” Marco replied, trying to project his best bug-off face at the man.

The reporter closed his notebook. “Okay, thanks. I can see you’ve got your hands full here. I’ll make sure to let you know when the article comes out.”

The freshwater tank was already full and water overflowed out the vent. Marco waved to the reporter, turned off the valve, and began to coil the hose. After the reporter was out of earshot, Marco shouted toward the boat, “Okay, Bill, it’s safe. If you wanna come untie lines, I’ll start er up and we can get underway.”

Bill’s voice emerged from an open porthole, as if he’d been standing there listening the whole time. “Be right with you, Cap’n.”