That Good Night

by Richard Probert

  I took a brief walk in the lush gardens surrounding the landing. Sitting on a bench, I watched children play, couples holding hands, folks meandering, stopping here and there to witness the simple beauty of blooming flowers. The antsy feeling I had about getting back to my boat, the feeling I had in Newport, was simply gone. I’m not sure what it was that came over me. All I can say is that I felt peaceful, happy to be alive. I suspect that Arden’s words had something to do with it.

  Yesterday when I was with Arden, talking about my will, I had made it clear that I didn’t want my sons to have anything. When I told Arden that, his only comment was, “A bit harsh, isn’t it?” At first, I blustered, carried on how they were ingrates, took my things, put me in a home.

  To which Arden said, “But you’re here, aren’t you?”

  “In spite of them!” I answered.

  “Perhaps,” Arden said to me quietly. “But, you’re here,” he repeated, and then went on, “I’ve written a lot of wills and believe me, rancor never works. Maybe your sons were a bit hasty, but maybe they were just trying to do their best. I’m your lawyer, not your spiritual advisor, so what I have to say on the subject of you and your relationship with your sons comes only from personal and professional experience. Maybe if you let your anger ease a bit, things will look different.”

  “I doubt it,” I said, “but I’m willing to give it a try.” At that, we both decided that I should write my will at another time, a time when I had thought things over. He gave me the necessary papers with the warning that I would have to have my signature witnessed by two persons and notarized before sending them to his office. His advice was echoing in my head since leaving Portland. Maybe just the thought of those words brought on this feeling of peace. Damn, could he be right?

  With daylight slipping away, I returned to That Good Night. I ate some leftover lasagna and retired for the night.

  THURSDAY, AUGUST 2

  I awoke to the slaps of water against the hull. The Piscataqua was on the ebb which I’d have to catch if I wanted a fast ride out of there. I ate a hasty breakfast and with the help of the dock boy, cast off into the maniacal sluice at 0705 hours. That Good Night’s propeller bit into the rushing water like nobody’s business. The excitement of casting off in such waters is akin to parachuting where there is no chance of returning to safety if you make a mistake; it’s do or die. Clear of the dock, I slung the wheel starboard, took the ebb on port and turned eastward toward the Atlantic. I was on my way, but I really wasn’t sure where I was sailing to. There was no final destination, no schedule, only the notion that I was going to head for the Caribbean. I had broken my hard and fast rule of doing my navigation before leaving but this was of no concern. Once clear of the Piscataqua, I would be heading south in waters that I knew well. Take my pick: Cape Ann, Gloucester, Boston, Plymouth. I’ll decide later. Right then I was enjoying a carnival ride.

  Serendipitous sailing might not be a bad idea. My life had boiled down to that. It was not like I was running a business, meeting deadlines, putting food on the table, or meeting payroll. I was free of that now. In fact, I was free of everything, accountable to no one, no address, no mail, no identity. I don’t know why, but I wondered what the folks back at Sunset were doing. Enjoying what life they had left, I hoped. My guess is that with Roberts out of the picture, I’d be declared dead, the insurance company would iron out a settlement and my two boys would be in for a windfall. With no body, there’d probably have to be an inquest. Who knows? This was all bittersweet of course. On one hand I had only myself to be concerned about. On the other hand, I only had myself to be concerned about. Catch twenty-two.

  With the wild push of an ebbing Piscataqua, I cleared Portsmouth Harbor motoring toward the Atlantic. With calm winds and seas, I left the sails furled until, nearing Cape Ann, I picked up a light land breeze of about eight knots. Unfurling all sails, I ghosted along the coast on my way to Gloucester Harbor, and here and there I was tied to a city mooring in one of the busiest fishing ports in New England. Of all the commercial ports I have visited, this is my favorite. With the hustle and bustle of fishing vessels and all the services that support the industry, the no-nonsense feel of this fisherman’s paradise is in stark contrast to boat-packed marinas. You’ll find no white painted rocks or yacht burgee laden yardarms dotting the busy shores of this harbor.

  Now it may not seem all that exciting to a landlubber, but heading ashore after a day’s sail is one of the great pleasures of cruising. You could cut the romance with a knife, not at all like visiting a place by car. Harbors like Gloucester are lined with history, of fishermen and adventurers coming and going. Swooping gulls; large and small vessels chugging in and out; their throaty diesels set on idle to obey no-wake rules; men busy loading and unloading stores or their catch. All with a backdrop of weathered shore side buildings dating back centuries.

  I visited the famous fishermen’s Man at the Wheel memorial. Down to the Seas in Ships is inscribed at the granite base of the iconic bronze oilskin-clad fisherman at the helm. Surrounding the memorial are small bronze plaques inscribed with the names of approximately 5,400 sailors lost at sea dating from 1715 to present day. Think of that when you eat fish!

  I ended my visit by having a few beers at the Crow’s Nest Bar, made famous by the Sebastian Junger’s bestseller, The Perfect Storm, before grabbing a delicious fish dinner at a dockside restaurant.

  Returning to That Good Night, I laid out a float plan for the next few days: Gloucester to Provincetown; Provincetown to Nantucket. I’d plan the rest of my southerly voyage in Nantucket. I pumped waypoints into the chart plotter, had my third scotch of the evening and went to bed with thoughts of the Caribbean Islands dancing merrily in my head. It was time to move on with what the rest of my life had in store.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 3

  I was now moored in Provincetown Harbor. The forty nautical mile jaunt from Gloucester to Provincetown took me through Stellwagen Bank and with it the sighting of a mammoth humpback. I was close enough to catch the fishy smell of the whale’s exhale and was glad that he didn’t see That Good Night as a possible mate or as distant relative of the whaler Essex.

  It’s a stark contrast sailing from commercial Gloucester to the tourist Mecca of P-town. Instead of fish fresh off the docks, here there’s trendy restaurants, more antique dealers than Antiques Road Show and galleries galore.

  Lori and I had pictures on our walls, family photos. The boys covered their walls with posters ranging from athletes to rock stars. But art, no! Our home was devoid of anything challenging or even resembling art. At the machine shop we displayed posters of machinery with scantily clad beauties holding micrometers or depth gauges, all gifts of machinery salesmen. Rigid Pipe Company had the best posters. The truth is I have never walked into an art gallery in my long life before being lured into one in P-Town. Catching my eye in the window of a small gallery was a small oil seascape. I wandered into the store and bought the thing—$900 worth of art. The artist, a Nova Scotian named Leonard Lane, captured the sea the way I felt about it. I mean there is nothing stable about the ocean; it’s constantly changing and that’s what this painting said to me. I hung it on the bulkhead forward of the port settee. I’m very proud of myself for buying it. Good for me.

  I finished reading A Coal Black Horse last night. Tonight I’m starting Last Stand at Saber River by Elmore Leonard. An oldie but a goodie.

  SATURDAY, AUGUST 4

  I’m writing this from crowded Nantucket Harbor. The anchorage is boat on top of boat with little room to lay out a proper scope. I’m hooked in all right, but I don’t know about everybody around me. If a blow comes up, I’ll just hope that a slew of boats don’t come bearing down on me.

  I have no desire to go ashore except, perhaps, to buy some orange juice, which I can do without if need be. Provincetown was quite enough of the tourist trade for me. I’ll take time to inventory my stores and plan the next leg of my voyage south.

  Bob stays in my mind wit
h more good memories than sad thoughts of his death. And Lori, as well. I’m feeling younger, freer to think ahead. More open. I’m not sure why and quite frankly, I don’t care to analyze the feeling of freedom that’s come over me. I will say that putting the past in the past is just where the past ought to stay. Of course that means having an eye for the future. The further ahead you can think the younger you become.

  In Provincetown, I met a young couple who were anchored just off my port side. When I was zipping back from shore, I passed close astern to their boat. Peering over they hailed me over to compliment me on That Good Night. Always nice to receive compliments, and she gets a lot of them. I invited them over and we decided to have dinner together. I offered the main course of fresh haddock, which I purchased in Gloucester with the proviso that they do the cooking. Gene and Cheryl Breckenridge were their names. They also brought salad and a dessert. We had a wonderful time with Gene doing the cooking, Cheryl doing the clean-up and yours truly pouring the wine. I didn’t discuss anything dealing with my past, sticking strictly to jawing on about happenings at sea and saying that I was heading south. Gene and Cheryl were on their maiden voyage, having just purchased a used sturdy thirty-two foot Saber. Full of piss and vinegar they were. Hopes and dreams of sailing ventures flowed like the wine. Hailing from Boston, they had planned to return the next day. “Are you on Facebook?” Cheryl asked me. I had heard of it but really didn’t have a clue how to use it. And I had no email address either, or land address for that matter. She was a bit amazed at all of that.

  After Gene and Cheryl left, I sat down and wrote my will. The writing wasn’t as difficult as I thought it might be. Actually, I took stock of things rather quickly, surprising myself that in less than hour, I was finished. Writing the will was cathartic. Who and what was important to me became clear. I thanked That Good Night as if it was she that had sent me off on a journey of self discovery, a voyage into the unknown regions of my soul. A sailboat can do that. I’ll get it witnessed and notarized before sending it off to Arden tomorrow.

  More Elmore Leonard then to bed.

  SUNDAY, AUGUST 5

  Not much to write about today. I spent most of the day giving thought to where I wanted to go, settling on St. Thomas or maybe just Florida for the winter. It’s only early August and to rush my way south doesn’t seem like a good idea. I had given thought of heading to the Chesapeake but August there would mean hot, humid conditions; the one thing That Good Night doesn’t have is air conditioning. Any further south than that only invites troubling hurricane watches.

  I decided to head back up north, maybe Boston, maybe Portsmouth. Either would work well for me given I could get a dock space close enough to the city that I wouldn’t need a car or have to rely too much on public transportation. Of course, Boston had the extra attraction of perhaps seeing Abigail again.

  I decided on Portsmouth—a 120-nautical-mile voyage was just about right for an overnight sail. The whole Abigail thing helped tip the scale—best to leave that good memory undisturbed. Based on averaging six knots, twenty or so hours should do it. I’d use Boston as a place to jump into if needed. My sailplan called for departing Nantucket at around noon with an ETA at Portsmouth somewhere around eight o’clock the next morning. I would have to keep a good watch crossing the Boston shipping lanes.

  MONDAY, AUGUST 6 – THURSDAY, AUGUST 9

  Disaster. I’m writing this after days of just trying to stay alive. I’ll do my best to give an accurate accounting, but to be honest, the three days I’m covering here seemed to blend into one unending stretch of time. One minute, the sun was out, the next it was dark.

  Sixty-nautical miles into the voyage north, I was hit with a squall. With the autohelm on, I had dozed off for probably a half hour or so before being awakened by a rather unhappy That Good Night. The wind indicator showed wind coming from all over the place with gusts to 25 knots. The barometer was falling. Air temperature cooling. I’ve been in squalls before; they’re no big deal if you handle them right. It was about 1730 hours and I was sailing with a reefed main and jib. On my way topsides, I flicked on the running lights. Once on deck, I kicked off the auto-helm, brought her about and furled the jib and main, opting to go bare pole; let the boat deal with it. The wind was now topping 20, gusting to 30 knots. I was far enough from land and shipping lanes not to worry too much. Besides these storms usually blow through in half an hour or so.

  As I was descending the ship ladder, That Good Night took a wave on her starboard quarter. I was tossed like an old beanbag onto the cabin sole. The pain in my back was immediate. With the boat being whacked from all directions, I couldn’t get up if I wanted to. I was a loose cannon, moving around wherever momentum decided to take me. On one roll, I was able to wedge my way into the galley area, and held on for dear life. Every movement brought pain soaring into my lower back. I nearly passed out.

  Maybe a half-hour later, maybe an eternity, the wind abated. The sea state took a while longer to settle. My right leg was akimbo, my hip swollen. This was Sunset revisited. Broken hips were death notices. But I wasn’t some debilitated old lady who took a spill on the slick lunchroom linoleum. I was a sailor, dammit! Maybe it was just a little crack. Give it some time, I said to myself. A few days and I’ll be hobbling around. In the meanwhile I’ll just lay low. Maybe just heave-to for a bit.

  The boat finally steadying, I crawled along the cabin sole to the starboard settee, clawed my way upward, rolled onto the soft cushion and passed out.

  It was pitch black when I awoke. My right leg was stiff as a baseball bat. Any movement brought severe pain. So what, grin and bear it! When I was a kid, my dad took me to a dentist who didn’t believe in using an anesthetic. He had this sadistic philosophy that the pain of getting a tooth drilled without a painkiller would encourage kids to brush their teeth. Well, I brushed like hell and it didn’t help all that much. We didn’t have fluoride back then. That was what was running through my mind: grip the black arms of the dentist chair and squeeze like a son-of-a bitch. What the hell choice did I have? Single-handed drifting on the ocean blue. Call the coast guard? And then what, wind up in a hospital. Not on your life. No, make that not on my life.

  I reached up and grabbed the handrail. Yelling like a stuck pig and running through my rather extensive repertoire of expletives, I hobbled over to the navigation station. It was 0120 hours. I flicked on the cabin lights. I had been drifting for over five hours. W 42 20.02; N 69 10.08. Depth 126 fathoms. That Good Night was drifting almost due east—next stop Falmouth, England. I was about fifty nautical miles off course. So what? I had a lot of food, water, and fuel. If I wasn’t run over by a tanker or fishing boat, if I didn’t hit some floating whatever-the-hell-it-might-be, I’d just drift and take it easy. I’d heal slowly, but I was most confident that I’d make out somehow. A few days and I’d be up and about. The boat was as solid as a boat can be. Hell, she might even enjoy being on her own for awhile.

  Going handrail to handrail, I made my way to the head. Taking a piss was another torture. It dribbled out in drops—so much for pissing a steady stream. But I could deal with that; old men do all the time. But I couldn’t deal with rose colored piss. I was bleeding inside. My bravado burst like a pricked balloon. Goddammit!

  At the vanity, I reached into my medical kit and pocketed a vial of Hydrocodone, 500MG. Back at the starboard settee, I reached into the hanging locker, retrieved a bottle of scotch and washed down three pills. Before falling to sleep, I knew that there was no way out of this. Either I called the Coast Guard and I submitted myself to the indignities of another Sunset, or I call it a day. My final sunset. I slept on and off, drank orange juice, ate slices of bread and a can of sardines. I took more pills.

  FRIDAY, AUGUST 10

  The sun was peeking over the horizon when I awoke. That Good Night was resting on calm seas. The swelling in my right hip has increased. Streaks of pain are racing across my groin. I feel weak and a little light headed. My piss is redder. All I want to d
o is sleep. I’m dying and I know it.

  Call the Coast Guard or take morphine? I choose morphine. It’s not much of a choice, really. I can’t get on deck to manage the sails or start the engine. If I called the Coast Guard, well, that would be the end of my future. I know where I would wind up and that’s not going to happen.

  When I add it all up, I’d say that I did pretty well for myself. I’ve cleared my head of bitterness—better late than never. I got to live my final days the way I chose. Cleared my decks to use a worn out phrase. I enjoyed the romance of a last love.

  I’ve made inner peace with my sons. Charles Jr. and Thomas will live a better life because of me. I hope they can forgive their dear old dad. I think business was as much a mistress as it was a way of making money. It sure kept me away from family.

  My plan is to fill two syringes of morphine, more than enough to cause my death. Go topsides, open the lifeline gate, sit on the rail, and inject myself. I’ll fetch my lunch hook out of the port locker and tie it on. That ought to sink old Charlie just as its chain took care of Ivan and Doris. When I pass out, I’ll fall into the water and let the sea claim what she will.

  I crawled to my dresser and retrieved the morphine. I injected 4mg, a sort of test. The pain eased considerably. So did the twirling in my head. I hobbled around making sure that the boat was presentable before filling two syringes with morphine which I put into my shirt pocket.