BillFi scrambled up the gangway and stood next to Dawn at the wheel. He hunched in his yellow slicker and closed his eyes. He listened to the wind. He listened to the rain. He listened to the waves. “They’re over there,” he shouted. He pointed off the starboard beam. “Half a mile or so.”
“Ready about!” Dawn shouted. “Hard alee!” She turned the wheel hard to the right. The Dreadnought came across the wind and headed off on its new tack. It was just a few minutes later that Joy called back from the bow.
“I see something!” she shouted. “Over there!” She pointed just off the port bow. Ahead in the water was an oily cluster of debris—scraps of fiberglass, splintered pieces of polished wood, a clutch of cognac bottles bobbing on the waves. In the midst of the wreckage, clinging tightly to a swamped lifeboat, were Turner and his crew.
How does BillFi do that? Dawn asked herself. She barked out some orders. “Heave to! Jesse, Arthur, Crystal—grab life jackets and get into the dinghy. Let’s get these people on board!”
As usual, Jesse took the oars, and the three crewmates ventured out into the waves. The Dreadnought was close to the wreckage, but it still took Jesse, pulling with all his strength, nearly ten minutes to cross the violent swirl of ocean between the ship and the wild-eyed crew of the Elkhart. They were clustered around the swamped dinghy, holding on and kicking with their feet to stay afloat. The dinghy had enough buoyancy to help, but cold and fatigue strained the victim’s faces.
Jesse pulled the dinghy alongside, and Richard Turner helped his crew grab onto the sides.
“There are too many of us!” Turner shouted over the shrieks of wind. “You’ll have to make two trips. We’ll wait with—damn! It’s the Dreadnought crew!”
“Yes, sir,” Crystal shouted back. “We’ll get you out of this.”
Arthur looked at the ashen faces peering over the gunwales. “Turner!” he shouted. “We’ll take five in this dinghy—the weakest, any injured, the coldest. Let’s get them in here.”
“We can’t hold five!” Crystal shouted back.
“Yes, we can,” Arthur answered. “You and I are getting out. We’ve trained for this, and we know what to do.” This is no time for democratic discussion, he thought.
Crystal spun around and locked her blue eyes on Arthur. Then she nodded. “We sure do!” she said.
Arthur grabbed one of the Elkhart crew under the arms. It was the cook, who looked just as somber and nervous as he had at dinner on the deck. Arthur planted a foot against the dinghy’s hull and hauled the man painfully over the gunwale. The cook flopped into the bottom of the dinghy, lay stunned for a moment, then curled up on the bow seat.
Arthur next reached for the meteorologist, but she grinned and laughed out loud. “Hell, no,” she said. “Take him first.” She nodded her head toward the nine-year-old. Arthur wasn’t going to waste time arguing; he grabbed the boy and dragged him into the dinghy. By this time, Crystal had helped the first mate, Woody Richardson, climb over the gunwales, and she was busy dragging the young actress on board. The dinghy lay dangerously low in the water, and waves spilled in over the side.
“Crystal!” Arthur shouted. “Let’s go!” The two of them tightened their life jackets and vaulted into the sea, and Arthur helped Garrison Chevalier boost himself into the dinghy. Without wasting a second, Jesse heaved on the oars. The dinghy moved slowly back toward the solid safety of the Dreadnought.
The water was colder than Arthur had expected. He felt the icy water suck his strength out to sea. He grabbed the side of the Elkhart’s swamped lifeboat and hollered over the wind. “Everybody in! Now!”
Counting Crystal and Arthur, there were seven people left in the water. Arthur did not bother with discussion and consensus. “Everybody sit down!” he shouted. “Sit down in the boat!”
Crystal nodded. The swamped-dinghy drills. They had been fun, many weeks ago, but now the skills they had developed in those drills were going to matter. She modeled the proper position and signaled for everyone else to do the same. Jim Greenfeather and Richard Turner caught on and helped the meteorologist and the Hennessey sisters hunker down in the boat. The group worked well together, and they squirmed down into the chilly water inside the dinghy, held onto the sides, and waited for the next command.
The drill went perfectly. At Arthur’s shout, the crew raised to a crouching position, and Arthur, Jim, Turner, and Crystal slapped and splashed water furiously over the sides. It took a long suspenseful moment, but gradually, the dinghy’s gunwales inched above the surface. Once the others saw the progress, they all began bailing water out of the boat. Ten minutes later, the boat was high enough to make steady bailing possible. An occasional wave and the driving rain refilled the boat, but the crew was able to keep up with it. The dinghy was too overloaded to row, but the waterlogged people inside could at least keep themselves out of the ocean.
Half an hour later, Jesse returned with the dinghy. He had come alone to leave as many seats as possible for the Elkhart crew. Half the people in the Elkhart dinghy climbed over to Jesse’s boat, and the two small vessels worked their way through the storm to the safety of the Dreadnought.
Even on board the ship, there was a lot of work to be done. Except for Jim Greenfeather and Richard Turner, who insisted on helping with the sails, the Elkhart crew was taken below and treated with bandages, hot soup, and warm blankets. On deck, the crew set some sails, and Dawn took navigational directions from Crystal, who had plotted a course to the nearest safe waters. Once the ship was tucked away between Matinicus and Ragged Island, with three anchors out and everything stowed and secured, the two crews squeezed into the dining room below. Some steady bailing had reduced the water underfoot to an insignificant layer of dampness.
Sipping hot cocoa and wrapped in a damp woolen blanket, Turner explained what had happened. “There are some people expecting us on Matinicus,” he said. “Some old business partners of mine have a cottage there, and they invited us over for a few days. We knew the storm was coming, but we thought we could get there in time.” He took a deep drink of the cocoa. “I guess we were wrong. The storm hit us quickly and drove us up on those ledges. The propeller shaft broke, and we started to go down. After we sent out our Mayday, we evacuated to the lifeboat, but we couldn’t even keep it from swamping. That water is cold—we wouldn’t have lasted out there much longer.”
“It is a wild one,” Dawn said, listening to the howl of the wind outside. “I’m just glad everyone is all right.”
Turner shook his head, his face pale and his expression serious. “If I can ever repay you for saving us, you let me know,” he said.
“On behalf of the crew of the Dreadnought,” Dawn said, raising her mug, “you’re welcome.”
Crystal and Jim huddled under a blanket along one wall. Dawn and Arthur did the same. Everyone chatted about boats, storms, Maine, and life at sea. The storm outside raged for a while and then gradually diminished into spent silence.
Early the next morning, the Dreadnought dropped the passengers off at Matinicus Island and sailed on her way. No mention was made of the “fellow in charge” of the Dreadnought.
For the next several days, the Dreadnought sailed the Gulf of Maine, Penobscot Bay, and a bit into Muscongus Bay. They staged some raids on large fancy yachts, snagging summer sausage, fruit, and other food along with some cash and the occasional bonus trinket. On one boat, they picked up three roasted chickens and a soccer ball. On another, they found a dozen paperback books and a three-gallon tub of Greek olives. Joy protested from time to time, but she drew strength from the knowledge that she was bringing the grace of Jesus among them, even if they sinned. She saw it as good preparation for her work on the streets of Austin. The House of Joy had given way in her mind, replaced by a vision of serving God among the unfortunate people on Earth.
One day, while anchored in a small and pretty cove, Dawn took a swim through the waves. The saltwater stung her lips. The sun, strong enough to raise small pink blisters on her sho
ulders, warmed the top two feet of the ocean waters, leaving chilly regions of darkness below that licked at her feet. She smiled as she paused to look around. Logan was on board the schooner that they all called home, walking barefoot along the ship’s edge and clutching a bright green umbrella. He was making the sounds of circus music: “BUM pa dittle ittle um pa dum pa, BUM pa bittle ittle um pa dum pa . . .” as his flag fluttered in the rigging overhead. Laughing at his antics, Joy and Arthur sat in the stern and played checkers. Crystal lay on deck, pumping situps on a mat, and BillFi and Jesse sat on a rock near the shore, debating intently with low tones and sweeping gestures.
“Ah, Goddess,” Dawn whispered to the sky, “this is how life was meant to be.”
They spent the next afternoon gathering mussels, which Joy used to make a stunning pasta dish with thick noodles and a hearty red sauce. The activity had been fun, with five of the crew wading along a beach at low tide, poking among the rocks and scraping the small meat-filled shells into tin cans. Logan got a nasty sunburn from the experience, but it was a pleasant way to spend a day.
A few days later, Logan declared that he would serve as the chef for the day. His breakfast was basic but tolerable: toast with peanut butter on it, a quivering mass of yellow scrambled eggs with bits of sausage and cheese mixed throughout, glasses of “Logan’s Patented Breakfast Juice,” which turned out to be a blend of cranberry and grapefruit. Lunch was hot dogs on the leeward beach of a tiny island; deli-made potato salad, pinched in one of the raids, completed the menu. But dinner, Logan said, would be something special. He issued tin cans to the entire crew—everyone was required to participate to get enough food for a meal—and he told his friends to put a little bit of seaweed and saltwater in the bottom of each can.
“I read about this in a Euell Gibbons book in the captain’s quarters,” he explained. He led them to the beach and demonstrated the procedure he wanted them to follow. “Watch this.”
He grabbed a large patch of chocolate-brown seaweed, held his hand still for a slow count to five, then flung the seaweed aside and thrust his hand into the now-open space. Skittering in the sudden sunlight were four tiny crabs, each no bigger than a quarter, and with deft movements Logan grabbed at them and plunked them, one at a time, into his can. He got three, but the fourth escaped below a large rock.
“Greenback crabs,” he said, showing the can’s contents to the crew. “They’re small, but they’re totally tasty. We’ll need, like, a whole bunch of them.”
Joy’s dark face looked skeptical. She gazed into the can, then looked up at Logan. “And once we catch a bunch of these,” she said, “you’re going to cook them, crack open their shells, and pry out the little tiny pieces of meat in there?”
Logan grinned and pushed his hair back. “Won’t be necessary,” he said. “Watch.” He grabbed another mound of seaweed, paused for a moment, and then flung it aside. He plucked up a greenback crab and deftly popped it into his mouth. He chewed it quickly.
“Gross!” Joy squealed. “That thing was alive!”
Logan nodded. “When you eat them this way,” he said, “you totally have to bite them before they bite you. But they’re really not bad—crunchy, salty, pretty good. For dinner tonight, I’ll cook them. You won’t have to eat them raw. But we’ll eat them whole like this. They’re really good.”
Crystal shrugged her taut shoulders, flung aside some seaweed, and tossed a crab into her mouth. “They’re okay,” she said.
The rest of the crew quickly lost interest in the enterprise and set about building small stone villages near the waterline. Undaunted, Logan and Crystal gathered a few dozen of the tiny crabs and dropped them into the cans.
“How exactly are you going to cook these?” Crystal asked.
“That’s the really cool part,” Logan answered. “First I’ll boil them, but along with the crabs I’ll boil up some Irish moss—that’s the brown stuff growing on those rocks over there. It’s, like, a special kind of seaweed I read about in the book. If you boil it and then let the water cool, it gels like a warm Jell-o. So I’m going to make the world’s first Logan McPhee Greenback Crab Irish Moss Seafood Aspic. It’s going to be fantastic.”
Crystal seemed unimpressed. “It could be,” she said.
Logan built a small fire in the shelter of a few rocks, transferred all the crabs into one large tin can with handfuls of Irish moss and some fresh water, and got the concoction boiling. Then he covered the can with a thick board he found along the high-tide line and left it on a rock to cool.
“Seafood aspic in two hours,” he declared. To round out the meal, he hiked inland a bit and filled a large can with wild red currants. When he returned, he peeked under the board to see how his soon-to-be-world-famous seafood aspic was doing.
It was moving. There was some scum across the top of the water, but he was certain he could see things moving underneath. He put down the currants and looked more closely.
Worms. Or maggots. Or parasites of some sort. There were thousands of them, writhing in the warm thick water, undeterred by the boiling. The spectacular potential of exotic seafood aspic had metamorphosed into a vile, revolting sight. “Damn it!” Logan said. He leapt to his feet and kicked the can far into the ocean. “I hope you all drown!” he shouted after the creatures that had ruined his meal. Crystal hiked along the beach toward him.
“Dinnertime?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Logan answered with a frown. “We’re having wild red currants and Spam.” For a fleeting moment, his thoughts took him home to his mother’s homemade meatloaf and mashed potatoes. He sighed. The summer was beginning to drag on too long.
It was a few days later, on August 15th, that they crossed paths with the Chamber Pot again. The Dreadnought was drifting slowly across the mouth of a bay when Logan spotted the odd little boat heading southward.
“Ahoy, Captain Smudge!” Logan called out. Smudge, wearing the same shorts and still dangling a sausage between his lips, responded with a wave and turned the wheel. A few minutes later, the two ships were lashed together and Smudge was on the Dreadnought’s deck.
“Not much time just now,” he told the teenagers. “Heading for warmer waters, you know. Won’t be long before the seas turn cloudy and cold up here, but by then, I hope to be down around Key West, selling conch shells to the tourists and trading lies with the ladies. But I might have a few idle moments to share a story with you, if you’ve got perhaps some rum or a drop or two of whiskey.”
Logan was already climbing the gangway with a mug in his hands. Smudge took an enormous swallow of the tepid rum, belched loudly, and began.
“Now this is just a short one, you see. Got to be heading south, you know. But I’ll tell you about the race between the Flotsam and the Jetsam. They were sailboats, you see, and the captains were twin brothers. Now the Jetsam was an all-white boat, with sleek lines and tight sails. Her captain was named Archibald, and he was a prim-and-proper sort of guy.
“But the Flotsam, it was broad in the beam and high in the stern. It was built for adventure and fun but not for speed. And that captain, Alexander, he was a happy-go-lucky sort of guy with a smile on his face and a dream in his heart.
“One day, the two brothers decided to race their boats across the English Channel. So they got up early, made some sandwiches, and set off to see who could reach his destination the fastest.
“The Jetsam took off through the water like a rabbit, bearing down on the finish line with the intensity of a hawk. Archibald was a determined sailor, and he wasn’t about to lose to his brother.
“But the Flotsam left the harbor and sailed along slowly. Alexander had some friends on board, and they watched whales and sang with the gulls and flew kites and swam alongside the boat when hove to.
“Well, Archibald had been waiting at the finish line for three days by the time the Flotsam pulled up. He was furious! ‘Where were you?’ he demanded.
“‘Oh, here and there,’ Alexander said with a smile. ‘Wasn’t it
a beautiful sail?’
“‘Beautiful? Hardly,” Archibald scowled. ‘It was tough and demanding—at least, for those of us who know how to race. But never mind, never mind. What matters is that I won the race!’
“‘Won the race?’ Alexander grinned. ‘Nonsense! I won a long time ago.’
“‘You won! Not even close. I’ve been waiting here for three days,’ Archibald sputtered.
“‘Ah,’ said Alexander. ‘Quite true. But the race wasn’t to this point, my brother. If you recall, the race was to see who could reach his destination first. Your destination was this spot. But my destination was a great trip on the water with good friends. I achieved that the moment I left the dock. So you see, Brother, you lost by three days.’
“And with that, Alexander rounded up his friends and set sail for faraway places, smiling every minute of the voyage, secure in the knowledge that as long as he was doing something he loved, he would always be a winner.”
Smudge finished his rum. “And with that, I’ve got to be shoving off. Long way down to Key West, you know. And while the Pot’s the best ship on the high seas, she’s not necessarily the speediest. Goodbye, mates. See you next summer.”
He climbed down to his little boat and cast off. With a wave, he tightened his mainsail and dug a shallow trough toward the South.
The days continued in an easy vein, pleasant hours clouded by periods of worry or sadness. On the whole, a nice stretch of summer, but something was missing. The raids were becoming routine—no thrill, no variety. The sailing was glorious but mundane—the sailors chose courses, sighted markers, sailed with precision, and reached their destinations with little difficulty. The coastline of Maine, stunning in greens and grays, became monotonous, the same stark beauty again and again, dulled not by any intrinsic loss but muted by the crew’s own sense of change. They chatted less frequently. There were fewer jokes. And each crewmate, privately and silently, began to think more often about families, school, and life at home, with its delicious imprecision and glorious irresponsibility.
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