by Tim Junkin
The wind was out of the south and brisk at twelve to fifteen knots. “A good spike of a breeze,” Barker called it. The sky was deep blue with an occasional cotton fluff trailing like a banner. The river gushed up green and foamy along the gunnels of the boat and stirred silver out to the horizon. At anchor were the hundred or so sailing yachts that had come up the day before from Annapolis, all tied alongside each other in rafts of eight or ten boats along the shore near Oxford. Teenagers worked Boston Whalers as ferries, taking the sailboat crews to and from the yacht club for showers or breakfast. A flotilla of party boats and cruisers milled about, waiting for the race to get started. The log canoes would sail in the morning, and the afternoon was set aside for the smaller Penguin, Flying Dutchman, and Star one-designs to race.
Barker pinched up close on a starboard tack and let his crew work the boards for a while and feel the sway of the wind and water. He took her downstream and then came about and traversed the channel. During the first few tacks, Matty was slow and clumsy compared to the others, but he soon got the idea. He started out second man on his board, but he had bulk, and once Barker saw he could move, he put him first on the middle board.
The race started at half past nine, and at the ten-minute gun Clay looked up and saw the river full of white sails moving across one another and surfing the blue swells in a dreamlike minuet. Misty carried two stepped masts, raked aft, holding their massive leg-of-mutton sails, and a boom-fitted jib—three large sails of canvas spreading from bowsprit to stern—and then a kite rising above the head of the foresail, all powering a narrow dugout hull with a deep centerboard. Barker began talking to Clay, Earl, Pal, and Byron in a steady chatter about strategy. At the five-minute gun, Barker was abreast of Flying Cloud, and he and its captain were shouting at each other.
“Looks right sharp for an old gal gone in the beam,” the other man hollered. “Hope she likes tastin’ my stale air.”
“Keep to your point there, Clacky,” Barker hollered back. “You don’t want your crew to be swimmin’ too soon, now!”
Clay motioned to Jed Sparks, who was handling Flying Cloud’s main, and Jed saluted in return.
Barker called out, announcing three minutes to the start. At one minute he started cussing. “We’re too fast, boys,” he shouted. “Too goddamn fast.” Misty was rapidly approaching the starting line but couldn’t cross it before the starting gun or she would have to come round about and recross the line. Clay eased off the foresail sheet, and Earl and Byron both let out sail, and they slowed some. “Thirty seconds. Men, drag off the boards,” Barker bellowed. Even with the loosened sails, Misty was flying from the momentum. “It’s gonna be close—get into the goddamn water!” he screamed. Matty looked and saw the other crew members hanging on to the boards with their hands and lowering their bodies into the river, dragging their mass through the swiftly passing water, trying to slow the boat.
“Matty, goddamn it, get into the water!” It was Byron echoing Barker, and Matty slowly lowered his legs into the water, holding on to the board, but went no further.
“Five seconds!” Barker shouted. The nose of the boat was even with the line between the two orange buoys. Bang! The gun went off. “We made it! Get your lazy asses out of the water! Out now! Up! Up, boys! Move it, goddamn your lazy souls!” Matty was quick, up first as the rest hauled themselves back onto the boards, drenched. Clay had tightened up on his sheet, as Earl and Byron had on theirs, and Misty was surfing through the spray, boats on either side of her, boats moving faster because they had not had to slow their momentum for the start.
“Tighten that main. Pull in on the kite.” Misty accelerated, rushing through the foam. Matty, out on the tip of his board, could almost have reached and touched the boom of the boat next to them, except that he was holding on for dear life. “Come down, Matty,” he heard Byron say quietly, and he inched down the board. The foam rushed and seethed below him. “Steady there, boy. Feel it. Pay attention. Feel that blow now.”
As they sailed past the Town Dock, Clay looked and saw Kate standing out on the end, waving a red scarf. Matty, balancing on the springboard, had his back to her and couldn’t see. The wind, Clay could sense, was strengthening in incremental gusts.
A smaller canoe, one that had taken an early lead on the first leg and was down the channel, was the first to go over. Clay saw it lurch and swamp but wasn’t sure which boat it was.
“That’s Island Bird,” Barker yelled. “Built in 1882. She’s done. Her sister Island Blossom’s up ahead. Built in 1892.” He grinned. “Getting’ blustery now, boys,” he continued. “She won’t be the last. Be ready now! You, Lex, work that bail.” Lex was in the center of the boat, with a halved Clorox bottle in his hand. His job was to constantly scoop up and throw overboard the water that came in over the side and sloshed around the bottom of the canoe.
Clay felt the line and the pull and give needed to keep the sheet full and right with the wind. No winches. Only block and tackle. It took strong arms to man the sheets.
The boat flew off its port tack and seemed to speed-glide through the element as though it were almost airborne—heeled over, perfectly balanced with weight and wind, its sails redundant. The green froth flew by the gunnel in a rush of sound and foam. Misty was faster than the smaller canoes and was able to pass them before the first mark. Clay saw that they were gradually gaining on the two larger boats ahead, but there was still considerable distance to make up.
He watched Matty, who was moving a few inches at a time, up and then down his board, watching the sails and the masts intently. Clay called to him. They locked eyes for a moment. Matty nodded and smiled, and then shifted his stare back to the sails.
After a few minutes, Clay could make out the windward mark, a yellow inflated buoy out past Bachelor Point. He watched it get closer as he worked the sheet, keeping track of the pressure of the wind in and around the sail.
“That’s Flying Cloud and Jaydee ahead,” Barker shouted. “Watch ’em close as they round the mark, and be ready to come about. Wind’s getting swirly. I’ll count down from ‘five’ to ‘go’ and then I’ll swing. On ‘go’ you boys throw the boards, and be quick about it.”
As they approached, they could see Jaydee reach the mark first and turn into the wind, the crew heaving the boards across to the opposite gunnel. Flying Cloud turned right behind her and slightly to her leeward. As Jaydee’s sails took, though, she seemed to go over too much, and then, in an overcorrection on the sheets, she bounced back too far. As though in slow motion she listed and fell on her side, over further and further, not righting herself, her skipper cursing and the crew shouting, as her sails settled into the river. Flying Cloud had to take evasive action and ease off the wind, losing some ground. Barker continued shouting through all the excitement and turmoil, shouting at Jaydee’s skipper and crew as he approached, laughing and shouting at the wind itself.
“We got a break there, boys,” he continued. “Let’s make the most of it.” He started yelling the countdown, “Five, four, three, two, one, go!” as he swung the tiller hard to port. “Go, goddamn you lazy suckers, go! Bail there, Lex. Bail! Go, boys—run those boards across there! Now set them things and climb boys, yes, climb!” Clay released the port foresail sheet and simultaneously hauled in the starboard sheet, pulling it through the blocks and tightening with his arms and shoulders. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Matty, who followed the others. He swung down off the board, grabbed his end, and in unison with a mate pulled out the board and stepped it across, then slid it out over the opposite side rail and fixed its edge beneath the leeward washboard before shinnying out to balance. The sails filled and the canoe surged forward, making new spray in the sun. She was balanced and never lost momentum. Barker cut just inside the floating Jaydee and, grinning widely, tipped his hat to the captain and crew as he glided by. Flying Cloud had moved back in, but since she had lost ground she was only two boat lengths ahead. The three other boats remaining in the race, smaller and not as
fast, had yet to round the first mark and were well behind.
Over the first half of the next leg, Misty and Flying Cloud ran even, the spray flying and the wind strong, coming more from the southwest. Flying Cloud was outside, to windward, and began to move closer to Misty.
“She’s tryin’ to steal our wind, goddamn it,” Barker shouted. “Pinch those sheets. Make some magic, boys. I want to cut out where she won’t follow!” Clay started to pull his line tighter, but Misty’s sails began to luff as Flying Cloud took her wind and forged ahead. Barker cursed. They watched as she opened up her lead. Clay adjusted his sheet as did the others and they regained their momentum.
Flying Cloud jibed around the Ferry Neck mark and ran downwind. Misty followed, remaining just behind throughout the third leg of the race. The two boats matched each other in speed and balance, their outstretched sails full as they surfed the waves. Clay, leaning back to hold his sheet tight, began to study the river’s mouth out past Bachelor Point, where the Choptank opened from the south and the waves ran rougher. The Town Creek mark was getting closer. The last leg of the race, the longest, was a tack out past Bachelor Point to the Benoni light. He scanned the shoreline and felt the change coming. “Barker,” he shouted, “after we round the mark, take us in toward shore. We’ll run the shoreline.”
Barker looked at him as though he were crazy. Byron seemed confused as well, but then turned and said something to Barker. Then gradually a smile crossed Barker’s face. “We’ll lose minutes moving in that far,” he replied.
Clay shrugged.
Barker gave a thumbs-up. “Okay, Clay. You got that sixth sense workin’, I can tell.”
They watched Flying Cloud round the Town Creek mark without a hitch and head straight out the channel. A minute later they reached the buoy. The other boats were not in contention. Barker guided her around the mark smoothly.
“Let her fly,” Barker yelled. “We’re heading for the shore.”
Misty raced, angling for the shore, seemingly off course and losing precious distance to Flying Cloud, which ran out the river’s middle straight for the finish. After several minutes, Barker gave the command and they veered toward the finish also, but they continued to hug the shoreline. “Tighten the sail, boys,” he yelled. “Bail, Lex, bail your heart out, boy.” The wind was still stiff, but the river here was calmer, and Misty seemed to pick up speed. They watched Flying Cloud. She had begun to pitch in the channel waves and stronger current. With each heave she lost wind from her sails. “The tide’s changin’, boys, and the wind and tide are at odds,” Barker hollered. “Out there in the channel it’s much worse than in here. And they’ll fight that tide the whole way. Goddamn you, Clay, boy,” he went on. “Goddamn, you can be right smart at times.”
Sailing smoothly now and balanced, Misty was gaining steadily. It looked like they were abreast of the other boat and then past her. But they still needed a fast tack back out to the finish line, and Clay wondered if they would build enough of a lead to win. They started angling back out. Barker was screaming a steady stream of epithets at his crew and at the wind, which was heeling them over. Then Clay noticed Matty pointing at him and gesturing, then starting to shout, his face changing complexion. It was at that moment that the Chris-Craft churned past them, coming from their rear, with no regard for the race or their delicate balance. Neither Clay nor Barker saw it coming, and its wake rocked them before they could prepare. The first wave nearly jolted Barker off the windward washboard and sent the bow angling around away from the wind. Clay let his sheet go, but Earl had wrapped his around a cleat for purchase and couldn’t loosen it fast enough, and it held as the wind knocked the boat over. It all happened in a moment. She was on her side and they were all in the water spitting and cursing.
Clay quickly found Lex and made sure he was fine, and then he found Matty.
“What the hell?” Matty came up sputtering. “Jesus Christ!” he bawled, slapping the water.
Clay took hold of him, pushing him against the floating boom for support. “We capsized. Happens occasionally.” Clay spat out a stream of water and grinned. Matty, who had taken his shirt off, looked for it now around the boat. Clay told him, “It’s probably too early for nettles, but if there are any, they’ll be out here, moving off the current. If you see any, just push ’em away with your hand. And just hold on to Misty’s side. She’ll float. They’ll come get us soon and tow her in. If you want, you can help make sure we find all the boards. Swim them over here and keep hold of them. I’m gonna help pull the sails.”
They cursed the cabin cruiser as they worked on the sails and lines. Barker was muttering to himself while he worked. “Did anybody get the name of that filthy fucker?” he finally asked.
“Probably a charter,” Clay said. “No goddamn sense.”
“Bullshit to that. Sucker needs a punishin’.”
“I was trying to point you to it,” Matty said to Clay, “to warn you.”
Clay explained how he’d missed it. It just happened too fast. And no one could have heard much above Barker’s shouting, the wind, the rush of the river and spray. Matty seemed to agree.
In the water, they all continued working until the Miss Beatrice arrived. Ronald Price, Barker’s cousin, skippered her, and he offered his condolences for what happened.
“We were out yonder at the finish and didn’t really see her till you were over,” he apologized. “By then she had throttled down and was out passing the lighthouse.”
“Fucker ran us down without a twitch,” Barker snarled. He continued yanking down the main.
“Was a good race, though,” Ronald said. “Would’ve been a close’un.”
Ronald’s wife, Molly, big as a bait barrel, rose out of her deck chair. “I believe you had’em, Barker,” she called.
Barker looked at them and then grinned. “Goddamn, I thought we had ’em,” he said. “These boys made her fly. Yessir. Just made her fly.”
Clay helped Lex up into the Miss Beatrice.
“Do you think we had her?” Lex asked after he was in.
Barker answered. “We did indeed, son. And you were a fine bailer. Hell, we were skipping along on the edge of magical. It was a thrill, it was. But it’s a damn fine edge, that is. Hard to balance on that edge too long. It’s fine enough just to be there.”
They took a while longer to finish taking the sails off. Everyone pitched in and they handed them up. Clay, Barker, Byron, and Earl worked the masts loose, pulled them out, and tied them. Then they started bailing. While they worked, they watched Flying Cloud glide across the finish line well in front of the other two canoes that were still sailing. “She ran a good race and deserved to win,” Barker said. “’Gainst everyone but us.” After enough of the water was out, they hooked up the towline. Several more of the crew climbed into the Miss Beatrice. Matty declined and elected to stay with Clay. Molly took cold beers out of a cooler on the deck of the Miss Beatrice and passed them around. Barker grabbed two for each of them. Apparently taking Barker’s lead, everyone’s mood had improved. Barker, Clay, Matty, and Byron took their beers and then found seats in the river-swamped Misty. They began toasting one another. Clay smiled. He sipped his beer, leaned back, and relaxed as the tow slowly brought them in.
Laura-Dez was waiting for Byron and took him with her. Clay took Matty and Kate to the farmhouse to change and pack, since they planned to stay that night at Bertha’s to be nearer to the dance. Then they drove back down to Pecks. Clay needed to take the Miss Sarah out into the Choptank to empty and rebait his pots, and they both wanted to come. Clay told them they could cull for him and explained how to tell the sooks from the males, and the larger number ones from the number twos.
Churning downriver into the afternoon sun in the middle of the regatta, they could see the Penguins racing across from Bachelor Point, forty or more boats jockeying around the channel marker and turning toward Benoni Point light. They followed the sails out into the broad expanse of the Choptank. Turning southeast, Cl
ay pointed out the landmark for his pot lay and readied the boat to pull. Beyond the shore lay the marsh, weaving with the tidal wash in the sunlight.
The pots were heavy with crabs. Clay gave Kate the rubber gloves and showed her how to avoid the pinchers. He was able to do most of the culling between pots, but she tried hard and helped some. Mostly, though, she studied him. Intent as he was, Clay couldn’t fail to notice how she watched him at work on the water.
Matty, at first busy taking several rolls of film, eventually began to help with rebaiting the cylinders, though it was clear he didn’t take to having his hands in fish brine. Clay had nearly filled all his baskets when he pulled the last pot. He whistled over his catch. He had eight bushels of ones, twelve bushels of twos, and seven bushels of sooks. The crabs were fat and heavy.
On the way back the sun was dropping behind them, and the river had turned the color of a copper cauldron. The sailors were finished and the big boats had all rafted inside the half-moon bay. The sound of horns calling came from every direction, and the ferries were busy. Clay let Matty and Kate off at the yacht club dock among the sailors and party-goers. From there they could walk down the street to Bertha’s to shower and dress. He planned to meet them later. Before she got out, Kate made him promise her a dance, and from the dock she blew him a kiss.
Clay took the Miss Sarah slowly back across the Tred Avon to Pecks. He was trying to get his thoughts in order, but they flew around in a confusion. Finally he just settled on watching the flaming river in the twilight.
When he got to the wharf, Jed had closed up. Clay had to unload the crabs himself into the walk-in cooler. He stood looking at the catch. He figured he’d caught over three hundred dollars’ worth. He felt rich. He drove home, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and drank it while he showered and changed, then grabbed another for the road, suddenly wanting to hurry. Despite the long day and the sun, and the tiredness from being on the water in the heat, he was impatient. On the way to Oxford, the night air rushing through his car windows was like an intoxicant. Clay stepped on the accelerator.