Despite my fear of the water, I delicately stepped out onto the rocks, feeling the magnetic pull of the tides. The moth was mere inches from my hand, and for a moment I almost considered jumping.
“Stop,” said a sharp voice behind me.
I whirled around—atop the boardwalk stood the young man who saved my life. I hadn’t imagined him after all since I could see him, as handsome and stately as the pines growing in the forest that overlooked the bay. I noticed he was wearing the same dark brown trousers and shirt as when he’d rescued me.
“Step away from the water,” the boy said, his voice stern and commanding, like he was accustomed to giving orders. So firm was the demand, I wondered if he was in the military. The Monterey Naval Academy was nearby, and I often saw the cadets in town, hanging out in the bookstores or coffee shops. They always looked dapper in their beige uniforms and caps. One or two had even wolf-whistled at Emily and me, making us giggle.
I stared at the hottie on the dock, wondering who he was and what he was doing here. The sight of him again made me giddy, and it had nothing to do with the fact I had chased an overgrown moth out to some slippery seaside rocks. I gripped a tall, jagged peak, being careful not to scrape my palms.
He continued to glare at me. His whole body was rigid, like the mast of a yacht. Only his hair moved, ruffled by the sea breeze, sun-bleached tufts framing a tan face, as if he’d spent most of his life in the sun. Heather could have Channing; this boy was the most beautiful guy I had ever seen.
I was silent for a moment as I turned around to face the dock. The movement caused the moth to rise into the air and disappear into the blackness of the sky over the ocean. With a hint of disappointment, I watched it go.
“Wh-who are you?” I asked, finally finding my tongue.
“A sailor of these waters,” he vaguely replied.
I thought about his answer for a moment; then it all made sense. He was a sailor, but he didn’t look like the typical guy in the US Navy. Still, he couldn’t be an ordinary seaman either. There was something more otherworldly about him—something very refined.
Most of the young sailors and guys who worked on the boats around Monterey were cute, but they all had a cookie-cutter look to them: the same cropped haircuts, Ralph Lauren polo shirts, and flexing muscles. This guy who had rescued me was more like an antique Rolls-Royce among a fleet of Fords.
“You’re the guy who rescued me from the bay,” I said, more of a statement than a question.
He nodded. “That is correct, and I prefer not to jump in the bay after you again. The water is cold tonight.”
I thought I detected irony or perhaps some humor in his words, but I couldn’t be sure. I waited for some expression to register on his face, yet he remained emotionless.
Then his tone of voice seemed to soften a little. “Please step away from the water. It is unsafe.”
I noticed his speech pattern was slow and measured. He spoke like a hero in one of the novels I liked to read—a leading man Jane Austen or Charlotte Brontë would write about. None of the boys at school spoke with such precise diction. Most of them preferred to use indecipherable slang like “Yo” and “Waz up?”
I tentatively climbed over the rocks toward him. Eventually I got close enough to get a good look at him. He was even more handsome than I remembered with his blonde hair messy from the salt spray, and those piercing blue eyes as deep and unfathomable as the bay. His bronze skin appeared lightly freckled, but otherwise, he had a flawless complexion. His strong nose began in a crease within his brow.
He stretched out his right hand toward me, and I studied it for a brief second. It was large and masculine, browned by the sun, with clean fingernails. His hands looked weathered as though they sailed many a stormy water.
I reached out my own slender hand and tentatively took his. As his strong fingers gripped tightly around mine, I felt a charge of electrical energy pulsing through my body. He pulled me clear of the rocks. I was almost breathless when I found myself back on the dock, right beside him.
“Thank you,” he said, his body inches from mine.
Wait. He’s thanking me? I couldn’t believe it. “What for?” I asked in surprise. After all, he was the one who had saved me from certain death.
“For stepping away from the water as I asked you to.”
It was then I heard Mrs. Prescott’s warning in my mind saying, “Stay away from the water.” I took a glance back at the sea and foaming waves splashing around the dark rocks. What is it about this bay that makes it so dangerous, that makes everyone fear it?
Before I could ask, he spoke again. “I would like for you to do something else for me,” he said in his commanding voice.
“What?” I asked at once, willing to do anything to win his approval.
His eyes narrowed, his expression hardened, and his voice dropped to a low, hushed tone.
“Keep away from here and from me,” he replied emphatically.
I was so taken back by the anger and venom in his voice that I stepped back a couple inches. He sounded as if he hated me with every fiber of his being. When I looked into his eyes, I saw no compassion, only contempt. I wondered why he had said it and why he was looking at me with such a hateful expression; I had no choice but to feel sorry for myself.
Then, swiftly, he turned to walk back up the boardwalk. He stopped halfway and untied a small boat from its mooring, a boat I hadn’t even noticed before. I glimpsed the name on the bow, Evening Tide.
“Wait!” I called after his disappearing shadow. “Just. . .please tell me your name.”
He stopped abruptly but didn’t turn around. I watched his shoulders droop a little as if weighing the decision to answer me. He hesitated a moment longer before slowly turning his head to face me.
I caught a flash of his eyes in the moonlight.
“Henry,” he replied.
Henry? Henry. I repeated the name to myself. It was an old-fashioned name, of sorts, but the sound of it was as sweet as the smell of jasmine. I opened my mouth, willing him to stay longer. “Why did you save me, Henry?”
Henry hesitated again, then for the first time, he spoke with a soft tone, “Because I did not wish for you to drown.”
Chapter Four: Evening Tide
Evening Tide—that was all I had to go on, the name of his boat etched on the boards of the bow. It was such a simple name yet mysterious and alluring. If I could find the boat, it would lead me to Henry.
I had the rest of the weekend free to do my detective work. After helping my dad with the groceries on Saturday morning, I walked down the coastal path into town. Once in town, I headed toward the harbor knowing it would be occupied by yachts and sailing vessels.
Approaching the harbor, I could see tall masts pointing toward the sky like silver needles sewing in a blue canvas. I searched among the wooden shacks for a white one with a blue door, the one I had seen while kayaking in the bay.
U.S. Coast Guard headquarters was a small hut on the end of the pier, right next to San Carlos Beach park. The sea lions made their usual cacophony, and I scrunched my nose at their salty stench as I walked along the pier. A rusty old sign hung outside the coastguard hut, and I knocked on the peeling, blue wooden door.
“Hello? Anyone in?”
No answer.
I turned the knob slowly and entered a sparsely furnished office with a couple chairs and a metal filing cabinet. A wooden desk stood in the corner, littered with papers, seismic charts, and reports. Above those, on the wall, was a large maritime map of Monterey Bay.
“What can I do for you?” asked a voice coming into the office behind me.
I nearly jumped out of my skin—feeling like a snooper—and turned around to see a stout man in a blue uniform and a white cap standing at the entranceway. “I uh…I’m looking for the Coast Guard,” I said.
“Well, you’ve found ’im,” the man said gruffly. “Pickard, Captain John Pickard, and I’m very busy—unless you’ve come about the missing sur
fer.”
“Missing surfer?” This piqued my curiosity.
“Yeah. Some out-of-towner went surfing yesterday morning off Carmel and hasn’t been seen since. His car is still in the beach parking lot. We have every available fishing vessel looking out for him.”
“That’s bad. What do you think happened?”
“Well, it’s likely that a riptide has taken him out. We’ll probably find his body in a couple days, ten or so miles down shore, if we’re lucky. Most of the time, we don’t find any sign of them.”
I shuddered. While we were kayaking, Christian had told me that the bay had a strange habit of gobbling up swimmers, that there were tales of people mysteriously disappearing. Over the years, many had gone unaccounted for. “It’s like the Bermuda Triangle of the Pacific Coast,” Christian eerily surmised.
The captain squinted, fixing his steel-blue eyes on me. “What can I do for you, anyway?”
“I’m looking for a boat.”
“Plenty of those in the water. Just take your pick.”
“No, not just any boat. It’s wooden, kind of old-looking.”
“Does this boat have a name?”
“Evening Tide,” I said.
“Evening Tide,” Pickard repeated, then shook his head. “Nope. I don’t know of any boat by that name registered in these waters—but it still rings a bell. What kinda boat did you say it is?”
I gave the best details I could recall from the night before.
“Hmm. Sounds like a skiff,” Pickard said. “You know, one of those boats that operate off a fishing vessel.” He paused, and then he laughed. “You ain’t much of a sailor, are ya?”
I shook my head. “No. I hate the water.” I wasn’t afraid to admit it. Still, for someone who despised it, I seemed to spend an awful lot of time around it.
“Why do you need to find this boat so bad?”
“I’m looking for its owner, a guy.”
“A-ha! Another missing person, eh?”
“Well, he’s not exactly missing,” I began, wondering how to explain my predicament.
“Hey, wait a minute. Haven’t I seen you before?” the captain interrupted, realization spreading across his face.
“Yeah. I’m the girl who fell into the bay while kayaking last week.” My dip in the ocean had given me instant notoriety, for better or worse.
“I thought so! I was the one who called the paramedics. You’re one lucky young lady. The bay has a powerful undercurrent and coulda easily taken you under. I reckon that’s what happened to the missing surfer.”
Okay, okay, I thought to myself, growing more and more frustrated by the minute. The last thing I needed was another lecture. My dad had spent most of the week telling me about the dangers of Monterey Bay. I had even been hauled into the principal’s office, where I heard more of the same. I was the new girl, but I had an infamous reputation already.
“It’s important that I find this guy,” I persisted. “Maybe he’s a sailor or a fisherman.”
“Do ya know his name?”
“Only his first one, Henry.”
Pickard shook his head. “Sorry. I don’t know any Henrys. What does he look like?”
“Blonde hair, blue eyes, bronze skin, fine cheekbones,” I said, then stopped, realizing that my description made me sound like a lovesick teenager. “He’s a little different from most of the boys around here. If you met him, you’d know what I mean,” I continued. “It’s almost like he belongs in another time and place.”
“Another time?” asked Pickard, cracking a smile.
“You’re not taking me seriously, Captain,” I said.
“Alice…You don’t mind if I call you that do you?”
I shook my head; he must have remembered my name from the incident.
Pickard gestured toward a hard wooden chair by his desk.
I sat down. I liked the man; there was something unique in his straightforward saltiness. He reminded me of a benevolent uncle.
“I’ve been living in this bay for over thirty years, and nothing surprises me anymore. People have all kinds of strange stories about Monterey. You must understand that the bay—well—folks see things.”
“What do you mean, see things?” I repeated in a whisper.
“Lights at night, ghost ships, strange noises, that kind of thing,” Pickard said; his voice becoming hushed and serious. He stood and walked over to a large brown book sitting on his shelf. “My captain’s log is full of such reports,” he said, flipping through the heavy book.
“I’ve heard that the bay is haunted,” I replied. “But surely you don’t believe in those old ghost stories, do you?”
Pickard looked at me steadily, peering into me with blue, wolf-like eyes, and then he laughed. “Yes, of course I do. How could I not? I’ve seen too many strange things in my time to be a doubter.” His voice went quiet for a moment as he looked out to sea. “Many of them can’t be explained.”
“Can’t be explained,” I muttered to myself.
“I believe there is something out there,” he concluded as he continued to gaze through the window out to sea.
I believed as well, and I wanted to share my thoughts with him, but something prevented me from telling him about the mysterious vanishing island, for the same reason I didn’t tell Emily. It was as if I would break some sacred pact—that uttering one word about it would betray some sort of oath.
“Have you seen anything…odd?” he asked, noticing how quiet I had become.
I shook my head.
Pickard continued to gaze at me with his steady eyes, saying nothing.
I tried to change the subject. “And your log book has no record of a boat called Evening Tide?” I asked.
Pickard shook his head. “I know where you can check though. Go to Pacific Grove Library. They’ve got a maritime section with a comprehensive record of boats docked in these waters. It goes back over a hundred years.”
The local library? Of course! It was only a few blocks from my house. Embarrassed that I hadn’t thought of it myself, I stood up to go.
“Right. Well, I’m up to my eyes with work,” Pickard said, “So if there’s nothing else I can help you with. . .”
“No, you’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”
“The bay is strange, eh? The way people just—disappear,” Pickard said, just as I reached the door.
“Does it really happen that often?” I asked, turning back.
“More than most people realize, I guess. They seem to vanish into the bay. It’s like the water claims them or something. People disappear, and the bodies are never found.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “Bodies never found.” What could it mean? Silently, I walked back along the coastal path, kicking at the round pebbles underfoot. I thought about what Captain Pickard had told me: mysterious lights in the bay, lost ships, and strange phantom noises. Once or twice since we’d arrived, I’d woken up at night, looked out the window, and thought I had detected something shimmering in the water. Maybe the bay does make people see things, I thought. Maybe there is something out there.
I had always been the type to go looking for answers whenever confronted with questions, and now I had an obvious place to start. The entrance to Pacific Grove Library sat directly opposite Jewell Park, on the corner of Grand and Central. I hadn’t gotten my library card yet, so that was the first thing I did when the soft-spoken librarian greeted me at the reception desk. Luckily, I had my ID with me, so the registration process was quick and painless.
She kindly directed me to the maritime section, in the left-hand corner of the library. I thumbed through the index of ship names, looking for any record of Evening Tide, but I found nothing. I jumped onto a vacant computer console and started Googling Evening Tide + Monterey Bay, but even the Internet couldn’t seem to help me.
Feeling a bit rejected, I wandered back to the librarian. “I can’t find what I’m looking for,” I said, disgruntled.
“The computer records and the ind
ex only go back so many years,” said the librarian. “You may have to resort to the microfiche, which contains local newspapers and maritime charts from 1850 to 1950.”
I nodded. “Okay. I’ll give it a try.”
The librarian walked into a back room, then came back and handed me a microfiche file marked: Shipping News Index. I scanned through the list of boats beginning with the letter E: Esmeralda, Evelyn, Evening Tide. There was a listing! The record mentioned the boat in The Monterey News on November 14, 1915.
I frowned, realizing that was almost a century ago. Why are the records so old? I wondered as I made my way back to the helpful librarian. “Do you have a copy of The Monterey News from November 14, 1915?”
“We only keep hard copies of that newspaper since 1980. The rest are stored on microfiche, but I’m afraid the library closes in ten minutes. We close early on Saturdays.”
“I’ll be very quick,” I said, breathlessly; it was vital I find out about Evening Tide right away. I couldn’t survive another night of suspense.
“Well, all right,” said the librarian, sensing the desperation in my eyes. She went back into the room, then returned and handed me another microfiche. “This contains all of the papers of 1915. I have to lock up in ten minutes.”
I nodded, thanked her, hurried back to the microfiche station, and inserted the file. I quickly scanned through the calendar months of the newspaper until I reached November. It seemed to take ages to scroll through to the fourteenth, but I finally found the date I was looking for. The front-page news was plastered with Coast Guard warnings due to a heavy storm at sea. Scanning the microfiche from left to right, I tried to read the small print of each article, looking for any mention of Evening Tide.
“Five minutes until closing,” the librarian announced to the patrons. She cast a meaningful look in my direction, and I nodded.
C’mon! I urged. Where are you?
Then, on page twenty of the paper, something caught my eye—an announcement:
Ghost Maven Page 3