Sean goes to a cabinet in the galley and gets his extra set of keys. Calls Grace. She answers on the first ring. Sean tells her that Pete is on his way to pick him up, and he will be there shortly. Then says, "Have you given any thought to where the boy might go? Have you looked through the house? Every room? Closet? Garage? In your car . . . my pick-up ?"
"No, not every room. I'll check again, everywhere. Oh, Sean, what will he do? Where could he be? He's so upset . . . with me. He called me ugly names. A slut. A street-walking whore. My God!"
"Grace. Calm down. You're not any of those. You know that. He didn't mean it. He's angry. Confused. Scared. We'll find him. Just check those places I mentioned and if he's not still in the house, think where he might go. Close friends in town. Some hangout. Gotta go. Pete will be here in a minute. See ya in a little bit." He hangs up without waiting for an answer. Slips into a pair of deck shoes, puts on a lightweight windbreaker, grabs his keys and bounds down to the main deck and onto the dock. The rain has ebbed to a wind-driven drizzle that stings Sean's face as he races for Pete's battered pick-up which is skidding to a stop in the lot.
As he opens the door to Pete's pick-up, Sean stops. Looks at Pete and says, "Your boat. Wait. He might be on board." Pete leaps out of his vehicle leaving it running and follows Sean at a dead run for the Fox Sea Lady.
As they clamor on board, Pete yells, "Check the bridge. I'll check below." They both race to their destinations shouting Colt's name over and over. They get no response, and they find nothing. When they rejoin, Pete asks, "Did you check the life raft?"
"Yep. Nothin' . . . and I looked over to mine. It's still in position. Let's go." They debark and dash to Pete's pick-up , hurtle inside and are on the move faster than a LeMan's start. Once on the road Sean asks, "Do you know any of his friends? Any of their hangouts?"
The old man, winded from the run, gasps, "No, only Robert." He gulps down some more air catching his breath. Then continues with, "The kids hang out on the beach at night. Around the bonfire pits. There are dozens of them strung along the entire beach . . . and hundreds of other spots for hanky-pank but not in this weather."
"Okay, yeah. When we get to Grace's, call Robert and see if my . . . my boy is there. I'll see if Grace has some more ideas. You know, he might just be walkin' it off. Thinking things over. Just sitting somewhere, stewing. Pissed off and doesn't know what to do or who to slug. But I don't think he's hiding. He's either taken off, or he's sittin' someplace. Possibly scared to come home now. He's said some ugly things to Grace. I should have been there when she talked to him."
"We're here," Pete shouts as he screeches to a stop behind Sean's pick-up, although he taps its rear bumper more than a nudge.
"Damn, Ponzio. I didn't think you were going to stop in time."
"I didn't. Sorry."
"No sweat. It'll run. Let's go," and they leap out and slam the doors on the run heading for Grace's front door. It swings open as they arrive with Grace standing there with a clear plastic rain slicker on. Sean reaches for her, and she falls into his open arms.
Grace moans, "Oh, Sean. Where did he go? My God, what have I done?"
"Did you check all the places I mentioned?"
"Yes, he's not here. Last night I left my bedroom door open a crack. I was sure I would hear him if he got up. I must have been more tired than I realized."
"Settle down. We'll find him. He's run off somewhere in anger. To think things over. He'll calm down and come back home. But, we'll go lookin' in the meantime."
Pete is standing just outside the front door in a drizzle, is shaking his head slowly. He says, "It's all my fault. My fault. I should have said something years ago. Months ago. Days. Anything, but this. None of this would have happened if I would have said something. Years ago. Anytime."
Sean releases Grace, turns around. "Pete, shut up. This isn't your fault. It's all my doing. From the git-go. Now, let's stop talking about what could have been and go find my . . ." he turns back to Grace, "Our son."
Grace says, "Where do we look?"
"First, we're going to call the police and get them to help. Pete, go call Robert right now. Grace, does he have any other close friends?"
She answers that he does. Names them. Sean nods, then calls the police, hangs up and hands the phone to Pete. Then, as soon as Pete is off the phone, Grace starts calling the four of five boyfriends Colt hangs out with. Sean and Pete wait while she calls. After the last call by Grace, and she shakes her head no, Sean asks, "Girl friends?"
"Just one," and Grace picks up the phone again.
Sean says, "Ask to speak to her dad or mom. Talk to them. We don't need a panicky teenage girl on our hands right now."
This call also yields no results. The police are now at the front door. They inform the group that they have already started a search of the beaches using their beach buggy. Then all decide on what sectors of town and the entire island they will search by car, and where to rejoin. If anyone locates the boy, get to a phone and call the stationhouse. They'll get word to the others somehow. They depart. Two patrol cars; Pete in his vehicle; and Sean and Grace in his pick-up.
* * *
The search is futile. Not a sign of the boy. And worse, if truth be told, not a clue as to where to search. By its end, Grace is crying again. It is all Sean can do to keep her calm. They all meet up in the parking lot at Pete's and Sean's marina. It was just turning light when they started; it's now a few minutes past nine in the morning. The rain, which had turned into a drizzle, has continued and has gotten heavier. Worse it has created a mist that is hanging low over the island, particularly on the bay side. Besides being nasty weather, the visibility is only a few hundred feet. The police are notifying all stores, restaurants, shops, any place the boy might seek shelter, to be on the alert and report anyone fitting his description. The beach patrol has contacted all the lifeguard stations along the beach to be on the lookout as well. To be safe, and without Grace knowing, they've checked for any stolen car reports or break-ins. Thus far, nothing. Not a sign or a sighting. He's gone and worse, he's a ghost.
Grace begins sobbing. As they stand outside of Sean's pick-up, she goes to his arms again. Head nestled on his shoulder, sobs subsiding some but tears still flowing. She's muttering, virtually indistinguishable. Sean leads her to his pick-up. "Honey, sit down. Rest. Collect yourself. We're going to get another plan in motion real quick, and I need you alert and thinkin' straight. Hang tight," and he releases Grace and ambles to the tail gate where all are standing.
A patrolman whispers, "Maybe we should alert the Coast Guard. Possibly he, uh, he . . . you know, took it real serious and took a header or went somewhere and . . . you know."
Sean says, "No, he wouldn't do that. But, it's a smart move to alert the Coast Guard, just in case. And tell your beach patrol to actually check the surf line, particularly in the out of the way places and up around The Light."
"Yeah, we'll do that right away." Looks to one of his men, nods towards the patrol car and the radio.
When the patrolman starts talking on the radio, Grace hears him. He can't whisper, and she hears the Coast Guardsman's response come squawking over the radio before the officer can turn it down. She leaps out of the pick-up and is standing at the patrol car. "What are you doing? What are you saying? That my son would . . . take . . . would . . . No. Never. Ever. He wouldn't."
Sean is by her side as quick as a cat on a mouse. He holds her by the shoulders and says calmly, "No, no. It's not that. We're just checking every possibility. Possibly he's just sitting on some desolate spot we haven't gotten to yet. Or . . ." Sean stops mid sentence. Looks at Grace. Then leads her by the arm away from the patrol car. They stop. He whispers to her, "Honey, don't you have a boat? A small sailboat?"
Grace's eyes widen. A start of a smile on her face, then her face turns ashen, her eyes grow wider, her lips quiver, and finally she scrunches up her face and with squinty eyes starts nodding. Sean realizes she is terror stricken and he hugs her t
ightly saying, "Don't worry. We'll find him. Calm down. Get a grip, honey. We're goin' to find him." He tugs at her arm, "Let's go check to see if the boat is gone." And they head to his pick-up. He calls to the group, "Follow us."
Grace says as she gets in and closes the door. "It's a Sneak box. He wouldn't stand a chance in this storm if he took it out. Where would he go? What could he be thinking?"
"Honey, we don't know that he did. At least yet. And if he did, he'd be in the bay which although not good, isn't unmanageable for a guy like him. He's a good sailor. Right?"
"Yes, he's good. Real good and he knows the bay but it gets ugly when the wind's up. And it was horrible last night."
"Yeah, I know. I know. But, we may be on to something. It's more likely he'd do something like this. He wouldn't steal a boat or a car. Didn't take my pick-up or your car when it would have been easy. He's not been seen, so the chances are he's out sailing trying to clear his mind."
They arrive. All dash to the slip behind Grace's condo.
The boat is gone.
The Lord has promised good to me...
His word my hope secures.
J. Newton
CHAPTER 37
The discovery that the Sneak Box is gone, although not expected by everyone, stuns the group into silence and they stare out into the bay as if searching for the boy. Grace has cried herself out and although still carrying a worried frown is looking more tough-minded. She watches Sean intently. His Marine instincts are fully intact and his leadership traits burst forth. He looks to the lead police officer and orders, "Notify the Coast Guard what we got here. The type boat, any markings, and the approximate time the boy probably took off." He glances at Grace, says, "Give them a description of your boat and an approximate time he could have left." Sean looks at the patrolman again. "And inform the Coast Guard that I think the boy would have headed up bay, foolishly trying to get out through the inlet at the Light. I don't think he would have made it, but we have to consider that a possibility. Also, tell them we are going to commence a water search in the bay and we'll check in on the radio. Pete will give you his boat's call sign. Mine is Wanderer; call sign Wanderer Six for me personally. We'll be on the standard emergency channel. If they want us to switch they can tell us. Also, Pete will head down bay, I will go up bay. They need to check the coastline and bring a small craft into the bay to join us."
Sean sees all have been listening intently with the lead patrolman taking notes. Sean waits while Pete gives the patrolman his call sign and Grace passes on the Sneak Box's description. The bad news is that all Sneak Boxes look the same except for the number on the mainsail. The good news in a way is there won't be many, if any, out today. It's not vacationers' sailing conditions. Only fools will be out, and Colton Callahan. Sean glances at each, says, "Any questions?" He pauses. There are none. He adds, "And tell your beach patrol to keep looking, and focus their attention up near the inlet and the other side." He looks around again. No one appears to have a question, only concerned stares. Sean nods, barks, "Let's go."
The lead police officer and the other patrolmen head to their vehicles; Pete to his; and Sean and Grace to his pick-up. When he gets in his vehicle, Sean leans over to Grace, puts his arm around her shoulders and hugs her. "Honey, I'm not going to tell you not to worry. You will. You are. But we're going to find him. And after we do, we'll have a good talk with our son. We'll get things squared-away. Okay?"
"I am worried, worried sick. But, I believe you . . . and trust you. He's on the bay somewhere, or he's beached." She leans close and gives Sean a kiss on the cheek cupping his head with one hand. Says firmly, "Let's go find our son."
* * *
Pete has first picked up Anna, then Robert who will help him man the boat. Sean and Grace are on board the Wanderer. Both boats are out of their slips and headed for the channel buoys not worrying about making a wake. Both he and Pete have contacted the Coast Guard. The news is not good. The weather is deteriorating. Not another storm but some unfortunate residual effects from the one that blew through last night. A heavy fog has dropped over the bay, preventing the Coast Guard helicopter from being fully useful. The chopper crew will scan the coast and will do what they can over the bay. The fog is restrictive, but after searching the beach and oceanfront, they will air taxi over the bay. The Coast Guard will put out their bay patrol craft and work south from Barnegat. Beside the fog, a heavy drizzle has started and the wind has picked back up to twenty knots, gusting to twenty-five and thirty. The bay is choppy with sizeable swells. The Coast Guard has notified all fishing boats of the search, those that are still on the bay and those on the way to port from the ocean. In effect, there are a few more craft assisting. Most were in port before the storm last evening. Only a few went out today.
At the channel Pete heads southwest; Sean with Grace alongside him on the bridge, head directly across the bay to the mainland shoreline of marshes and coves. All are on the emergency channel listening to the position reports and of course for any sightings. No word. Reaching the far shoreline, Sean starts to cruise north working as close to the shore as possible. He has a microphone speaker on board and calls Colt's name every so often.
Grace wanting to help in some way asks, "Want some coffee?"
Knowing that keeping her busy would be good, Sean responds, "Yeah, that'll be good. Thanks," and gives her a squeeze. "There's a thermos in the galley you can use." As she steps away he adds, "And be careful goin' down."
"I will. Be back in a jiffy."
"And careful comin' back up."
"Right. Don't worry, and just don't beach us."
Sean chuckles at her remark. While she's below, he radios the Coast Guard to get an updated weather report. He's told this gunk is going to stay as it is until dusk. Visibility will not improve until around nine tonight when the storm is expected to settle, allowing the bay to calm. Sunny and dry weather tomorrow with calm seas if they need it. Sean calls Pete on the radio and tells him that he thinks that if Colt went south and had difficulty, he would go aground on the Jersey shore. The wind and waves would drive him that way. And to keep him informed, and to not go south of West Beach Haven.
Then Sean radios the Coast Guard. "This is Wanderer Six. I'm heading up bay. I have a hunch the boy headed for the inlet. I'm goin' up to the Clam Island area, then around Barnegat, and over toward the Sedge Islands. Copy?"
He hears in return, "Copy. Roger. We're in the inlet straight. Will search both banks and a short way up the north beach line, surf permitting. Then will come back and work the bay. Will advise. Over."
"That's a Roger. Staying open. Out."
Grace comes up alongside Sean, says, "Here. Careful it's hot. What was that all about?"
"Just checking with the Coast Guard. I'm headin' toward Clam and the Sedge Islands. I've got a hunch. I trust my gut feeling. Never failed me in the bush. Should work the same here."
Grace hugs him, kisses him on the cheek and says, "I trust your gut, too." She puts the thermos down and holds the cup of black coffee for the both of them. She takes a sip; offers Sean one as they batter their way north in an extremely angry bay. However nasty the bay is, the fifty-six foot Wanderer handles it easily.
At the Clam Island area, Sean circles cautiously. Can see nothing and gets no response from calling Colt's name using his power megaphone. Pete continually reports he's finding nothing. He's not yet to West Beach Haven and reports the going is slow; the visibility is minimal. The Coast Guard chopper has followed the coastline south and the pilot reports finding nothing and is turning north, retracing its flight path, then will go north of the Light. The patrol boat has found nothing and reports it's back in the bay and will make a speed run down the west shoreline of the island, along the marinas just to be sure. Reports are not encouraging, the weather is not improving, visibility is worsening and evening is approaching faster than the bottom of a dark well to a falling bucket.
After the Clam Island area, Sean heads up to the Sedge Islands, and inch
es forward, easterly, as if he were going through the inlet. He's barely above idle speed and running about dead into the wind, waves and the tide. The good news is the gusts have quieted, and the wind is down to a steady nineteen knots. As he inches forward, staying as close as he dare on the port side to Sedge, he keeps calling Colt's name. Both he and Grace strain to hear any response. They stand at the helm, Grace's arm looped through Sean's, the other holding the coffee. Now they're drinking straight from the thermos.
Suddenly, seconds after another calling of Colt's name, Sean stiffens. Leans his head to the port, left ear pressing against the wind. He quiets Grace with a wave of his hand. Calls again on the megaphone. Then listens. Throttles down, maintaining just enough power to hold the Wanderer against the wind and wave action. Calls again. Strains to listen again. Says to Grace, "Hold the helm steady for a second." He strides over the several feet to the port side of the bridge. Calls again. Listens. Grace fixes her gaze alternately between looking ahead and watching Sean and the shoreline.
He comes back and takes the helm. Shakes his head and says half to himself and half to Grace, "Could have sworn I heard a voice. I've always been able to see a gnat in a cane field at a thousand meters and hear it fart as well. I know I heard something. A shout."
Grace looks at him in anticipation, however has to chuckle at his remark.
Then suddenly a flare bursts off the port side, on Sedge Islands, from an insignificant cove hidden from and west of the inlet. More or less directly north of Barnegat Light. Sean quickly reaches under the helm cabinet locker, grabs a signal flare. It's no different than the hand flares he's used in Vietnam. He pops the flare; it shoots skyward and bursts over the bay shore line. It gives off an eerie light in the fog as it drops slowly over the bay, still visibility is much improved. He calls Colt's name again. This time he can clearly hear a reply, "Ahoy, over here. Help!"
Home is a Long Time Ago Page 26