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With the Sun going down among the salt-scoured highrises of Aventura, Cuttridge Funk pulls back the throttle on the burring Yamaha and keeps to the middle of the channel. He worries about submerged road signs and the cresting exhaust stacks of trailer trucks and nests of power cables that float just beneath the oily surface and snag propeller blades. Where once there were arrows spray-painted on Spanish tile, now there are milk jug buoys and the splintered stumps of utility poles, and the storm winds toss everything around. He toggles the fog lights under the causeway where the overhead span