History had littered both books and coastlines with ship wrecks where the fatal blow didn’t come from giant waves, but rather running into the bottom - a fact driven home with a punctuation mark in personal terms on a trip with my father years before. We had been coasting along in a lake situated high in the mountains of North Carolina. Just ahead, off to the starboard side, a small buoy marked a sandbar near the surface. A speedboat coming up from behind had swung right instead of left where deeper water would have carried them past us. Instead the boat had struck bottom about a hundred yards ahead, the impact ripping the motor off its mount. The two men inside had been thrown forward with one suffering severe lacerations after running face first into the windshield.
Elsie had commented on Angel not being a heavy weather boat. She wasn’t. That fact played in her favor in the waters of the sound. Angel carried a keel that could be raised or lowered from a hand crank located inside near the sink. Keel down, her draft ran almost four feet. Keel up however, and she could float in a foot of water. Taking her into the deep swells of the open ocean wouldn’t just be stupid, but borderline suicidal. She hadn’t been designed to ply the seas. She’d been built to run along the coast and gunk hole in bays and estuaries, and that she did exceedingly well.
Somewhere, maybe a mile ahead, a channel carved out of the bottom by the Army Corps of Engineers sliced deeper water across the sound. Elsie wanted to go to the north side of the island. The cut ran directly across to the southern end. With the keel up, Angel might have been able to take a more direct north east course. I had no desire to try and work my way across shifting sandbars and pick my way through water less than a foot deep in some places. Nor did I want to be put in a situation where changing tides left us either grounded or me in knee-deep waves trying to push her out after she hit bottom.
The channel was clearly marked and safer. I intended to take it most of the way. Somewhere along the route, the flow of currents in and out of the inlet at the southern end had carved a natural groove along backside of the island. I would use that to get as far north as I could. When that gave way to shallow water, I’d pick my way through if need be.
The more I thought about heading north, the less I liked my options. The only bright spot I could find in the messy water ahead related to distance. If disaster struck, at least we wouldn’t be bogged down miles from land.
Daniel stepped up into the cockpit and canted his head back toward the cabin. He had his life preserver firmly locked into place. Leaning out to look past him, I saw Elsie’s diminutive figure clad in day-glow orange moving about inside the boat.
I pointed to the tiller.
“Want to drive for a while? I need to get the GPS and depth finder mounted.”
As strange and mature as he seemed, I had no idea what type of response I’d get. I shouldn’t have worried. Daniel quickly proved he still had some boy in him.
“Me? Sure, I’ll drive.”
I climbed out of the pilot’s seat and motioned for him to take my place. Once he had settled in, I passed over the tiller and pointed to the compass.
“See that red line? That’s our direction of travel. Keep it halfway between north and east, or halfway between the N and the E.”
I made my way over to the compass and put my finger on the dial. “Right here, that’s where we want this tall red line to be. I’ll watch for the buoys marking the channel. Once we get there, I’ll set Angel on a new course. You can steer some then too if you want. Just have to watch that we stay between the markers on the way out.”
He settled back and grabbed the tiller with an air of importance. I should have warned him. Tiller steering doesn’t take well to a heavy hand. The instant he pulled on it, Angel swung abruptly to the left.
“Easy,” I told him. “It doesn’t take much and remember, the tiller turns the boat the opposite way. Push it left, Angel turns to the right. Pull it towards you, she goes left. Just ease her back now, slow.”
I waited while he brought the boat back in line and nodded.
“There you go. See? It’s not hard. Just watch the compass and you’ll be fine.”
He nodded intently, staring at the little red marker as if afraid it would disappear. I fought back a grin. The last thing I had to worry about was venturing off course. Daniel would fret over a degree or two of variation - at least until he realized that manning the helm was actually a chore. I watched him for a moment and then figured I’d better get busy while his interest held.
The GPS and the depth finder both had permanent mounts on the bulkhead outside the cabin. I set them in place, hooked up the power to both units and plugged the transducer cable into the depth finder. Both flared to life with bright screens, the GPS in full color, the other in black and white. The depth meter instantly noted a water depth of six feet and began running a continuous scan of the bottom drawn in a thick dark line across the gray background. The blips floating by marked fish swimming underneath.
The initial reading indicated that Angel was making about five knots, surprising since the throttle was still stuck at about one-third.
With that done, I crawled back atop the cabin roof. The box containing Dad’s chopped-down dune buggy had two straps running across it, securing it on either side to cleats mounted specifically for the task. I checked to make sure they were tight, then went forward and wound up the dock line I had tossed on the deck earlier. I double checked the head stay while I was there, taking an extra turn on the turnbuckle.
Satisfied that nothing would slide off or come crashing down on my head, I moved up to the pulpit and gazed out over the sound. We had left just before noon. The high angle of the midday sun kept most of the glare off the water, with only occasional flashes marking the passage of the short waves. No more than fifty yards ahead, a green buoy marked the edge of the channel.
I turned and headed back to the cockpit. Daniel still sat with his eyes glued to the compass.
“The channel is just ahead. Start bringing her around to starboard.”
He looked up confused. I pointed to the right side of the boat.
“That way, slow and easy.”
Angel swung around in a gentle arc, the compass needle sliding from north east to dead east as she turned. About half way through the turn, the depth meter suddenly dropped to twelve feet. I climbed up on the cockpit seat and looked ahead. A heavy wooden post rose from the water about a quarter mile ahead. Above the high tide mark, a red triangle identified the next channel marker. I looked back at the green one we’d just passed and estimated the width of the channel to be a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty yards wide.
“Keep the red line on the E,” I told Daniel, again using my finger on the compass dial to point out the new heading. He nodded and went back to staring at the dial. I sighed as I realized that I’d have to keep an eye out myself. The boy might keep Angel on course, but he would run over another boat in the channel without ever seeing it.
“Aren’t you going to put on your life preserver?” he asked without taking his eyes from the compass. I looked back at the one he had laid on the cockpit seat for me and grimaced. I hated the things.
“Everyone on a boat should wear them,” the boy said solemnly.
Elsie stuck her head up from the companionway. “That’s right. Everyone should, even you, Hill William. Now, how about I turn on some music and fix us some lunch?”
She looked up at me.
“I’ll cut some slices off one of the FOUR hams I found down here. You need a better diet, boy. By my reckoning, fifty pounds of potatoes, six pounds of butter, and a sack of lemons make up most of your food.”
“There’s more than that down there,” I protested. “The forward berth is full of stuff and there’s a cooler full of meat under the starboard bunk.”
She crinkled her nose. “I said most of your food. Yes, there’s more, but half of what you’re gonna eat is right there in them three things I said.”
I spread my hands out wide. “Yeah, and those th
ings go well with seafood. I wasn’t joking when I told the Sheriff I was going fishing.”
She snorted and disappeared inside the cabin. A few seconds later, the Beach Boys boomed from the interior, all of them wanting to go to Aruba, Jamaica, and desperately pleading with a pretty girl to go along with them.
I don’t know where she found the radio station, but the tunes rolling out of the cabin could have been advertised as solid gold from the Seventies and Eighties. By the time Elsie stepped up into the cockpit, Bob Marley had extolled the virtues of simple life with Three Little Birds, and Creedence Clearwater Revival had everyone, even me, dance idiot that I am, tapping their feet to Down on the Corner.
The music washed away the somber atmosphere that had permeated the boat ever since we’d pulled away from the dock. I’m no singer, but the songs proved too catchy to stay silent. Even Daniel, who had spent most of his time at the tiller looking like a figure from a wax museum, started swaying and bobbing.
Elsie passed up a plate full of ham and cheese sandwiches and a bag of chips. Once I had taken them, she followed the food with a jug of iced tea I had picked up in Morehead City earlier that morning. She cranked the volume down a few notches and then joined me and the boy in the cockpit.
The next twenty minutes or so is seared into my memory as one of the last best moments before the fall. The day could not have been better. Small cotton ball clouds dotted an otherwise clear, Carolina blue sky. Angel gleamed in the bright sunlight. The tiny waves on the sound glittered like diamonds, tossing shards of light from their shoulders as they passed. The temperature couldn’t have been much over eighty, with enough wind to keep the heat down and the bugs away. Behind us, the mainland hovered on the horizon like a strip of gold with fall colors glowing in the late autumn sun.
I kept watch for the buoys while we ate and talked, nudging the tiller right or left as needed in order to cling to the narrow strip of deep water. Elsie had finally brought Daniel to life, regaling him with stories of her early years growing up on Portsmouth Island.
I could have taken a year of such days, even better, a lifetime of them. The same radio that had crafted a feel-good atmosphere, however, also took it away.
Just as I picked up the last bit of my sandwich, the music faded. The announcer, who had been cranking out hits in a voice that sounded like he’d rolled a joint the size of Texas on the way to work disappeared, replaced by a woman whose crisp, clear tones sliced away the laid back atmosphere. Where the DJ had blended feel-good music in a smooth voice free of worries, the woman had us all straightening up in our seats:
This is Christine Arapaloe. We have a news bulletin to pass on. Stand by please.
This just in from the AP: Overnight reports across the nation have been bleak, with estimates as high as two thousand people succumbing to The Fever in the past twenty-four hours. As many as twenty-thousand more reported to hospitals last night with symptoms consistent with The Fever. California and Arizona still lead the nation in both infection rates and mortality rates. New figures show that the disease is gaining a foothold. New York, Georgia, Illinois, Ohio, and North Carolina have all reported sharp increases in the number of patients arriving in Emergency Rooms with the flu-like symptoms. Mortality figures from those five states represent a third of all deaths reported yesterday.
Officials believe the scattered nature of the Fever is related to airport hubs located in the affected areas. As of nine a.m. this morning, The Fever has been identified in 40 of the 48 states in the continental U.S. No official estimate of the potential impact has been released as yet.
Just minutes ago, CDC spokesperson, Ann Trankin released a statement indicating that the disease may be evolving. Recent cases in California have shown a troubling increase in aggressive behavior occurring in the later stages of the infection. Hospitals in Los Angeles and San Diego issued guidelines yesterday advising that patients be restrained in their beds as the disease progresses.
Authorities are asking residents to stay home and to eliminate all travel that is not absolutely necessary.
A press release from the White House this morning indicated that the President will hold a news conference this afternoon at four p.m. to address the issue with the nation.
We will broadcast it live. Stay tuned here for the most up to date news.
Silence reigned for a long moment, both on the radio and the boat. Then the doper came back and introduced the Three Dog Night. I’d lost my taste for the music though. Elsie apparently had too. She rose and headed below. The radio clicked off moments later.
The Fever had been like a monster storm, clinging to the horizon for some time. The day Elsie and her grandson rode across Core sound with me marked the day that the clouds opened. What rained down out of them wasn’t water, but a version of hell on earth straight out of a horror writer’s nightmares.
That day marked the beginning of the end. What no one knew in that moment was that within an unbelievably short period of time, at least half of the people standing next to them would be gone.
None of us knew goblins would be hunting the forests at night either or that their sole intent would be to kill off the survivors.
Chapter V - Portsmouth
The southern end of the island appeared off the port bow an hour later, rising out of the blue water in a long, dark smudge that looked like an artist had taken charcoal to the horizon. Following the channel hadn’t been hard. The edges had been well marked with either a red or green buoy spaced about a quarter mile apart. Red noted the left or port side. Green marked the right. On the way back, the opposite would hold true, leading to the old sailor’s term of “Red, Right, Return.” The simple phrase told mariners on which side of the buoy they’d find deep water, and for the geographically dysfunctional, which way the bow should be pointed.
The inlet between Portsmouth and the southern Core Banks vividly demonstrated the shifting and fragile nature of barrier islands. Hurricanes had battered the narrow waterway, choking it with sand at times and carving out new paths at others. At one point, the label on the charts had to be moved several miles south after a series of storms redrew the coastline, erasing the waterway like a teacher swiping chalk from a blackboard.
The Core of Engineers had stepped in and dredged a deeper channel in firmer sand three miles to the south. I’d first seen the inlet in the early Eighties. The passage had looked man-made in those days with the sides clearly marked and arrow-straight. I stared at the opening between sound and ocean as we approached. What I saw bore little resemblance to the place where Dad and I had fished. Time had softened the crisp lines into a more natural coastline with wind and water combining forces to round out the entrance and wear down the neat edges on either side.
Ahead, a concrete dock marked the point where the Atlantic ferry dropped off fishermen and campers. Beyond the scrub pine and stunted brush, a handful of tired-looking cabins sat near the dunes. I knew from my first visit to Portsmouth that they were used primarily by fishermen. The Park Service owned and operated the site which also contained a small shed where visitors could buy gas, water, and ice.
The thought brightened my day considerably.
“Hey!” I remarked, straightening up and craning out to look past the curve of Angel’s hull. “They have ice here.”
Elise looked up with a frown.
“Yeah, so?”
I shot her a grin. “I just had a passing moment there where I almost fell to my knees to worship the god of fishermen and coolers.”
The frown on her face deepened. She leaned over. “You okay, Hill William?”
I laughed.
“I’m better than okay. Ice means my tea will be cold and my glass will clink when I drink it.”
She huffed and turned to Daniel. “The man is daft.”
Ignoring her, I eased Angel into the slack water well away from the dock and killed the engine. The instant the motor died, I raced forward and dropped anchor in less than six feet of water. Once the plow shaped an
chor hit bottom, I let out another twenty feet of line before I tied the end off. That extra line, called scope by sailors, would allow enough slack for the flukes to dig into the bottom.
With Angel tethered to keep her from drifting while I worked out the next leg of the journey, I headed back to the cockpit and checked the time. The little numbers on the GPS display indicated a passage time of one hour and ten minutes, marking the arrival at 1:08 p.m.
I had downloaded charts of the entire island chain to an old laptop before I’d left Tennessee. Despite the early arrival, I didn’t feel like celebrating just yet. The town of Portsmouth lay twenty-two miles north. With winter not far away, sundown would come by seven at the latest. At top speed, Angel made a little more than seven knots. Simple math said we could make it in three hours. I didn’t trust it. Picking my way through the sandbars and shallow water could easily double the transit time, especially if we grounded along the way.
I had planned on going north and knew a channel deep enough for Angel ran along the backside of the island for several miles. The thought of trying to make the northern tip on the first day hadn’t crossed my mind until Elsie had invited herself along. I’d gotten us as far as my memory would allow. For the rest, I needed to look at the charts to see what we were up against.
The laptop sat all the way forward, stored in the V-berth along with much of the food Elsie claimed I didn’t have. The only place I could stand upright in the cabin was near the hatch, under the pop top. A toddler could probably walk through the rest, but no one else. That meant climbing across the gear I’d tossed in earlier, hunched over and trying not to bang my head on the ceiling. I looked at Daniel.
The Island - Part 1 Page 8