Secrets Haunt the Lobsters' Sea

by Charlene D'Avanzo

  I sucked in a breath. To the west, a wide band of dark charcoal clouds obliterated the break between sky and sea. From one end of the horizon to the other, that black smudge was racing right at me. Ahead of the storm, the sea’s surface was a sickening grey-green.

  I swung the kayak toward Macomek, fixed my heading at three hundred degrees, and dug the paddle into the water. Rotating left and right with the full strength of my abdominal muscles, I pulled the blade as fast and cleanly as I could. The boat shot forward, but too soon the messy sea made efficient paddling a joke. Closely packed waves jostled the kayak from side to side and threatened to turn me over. To avoid being capsized, I had to lean into the bigger ones using the paddle as a brace. The maneuver slowed my progress to a crawl.

  I stopped to catch my breath, squinted at the approaching squall, and didn’t like what I saw one bit. A black roiling avalanche, the storm’s progress was much quicker than my own.

  Ahead of the rain and like a slap across my face, the wind suddenly blew up to thirty knots—a gale. The boat acted like a big magnet and swung into the wind—away from where I had to go. And with the whistling winds came even higher cresting waves. If a wave knocked me over, I could roll my kayak to an upright position in a calm sea but doubted if I could complete the maneuver in a wild one.

  More than a mile off a Macomek island, itself twenty miles from the coast, I was alone in a bucking sea kayak I could not steer in a frigid sea that could swamp my little boat in an instant. In all my years kayaking, I’d never faced anything close to this.

  My fear turned to anger. Screaming like a banshee, I called those waves, that wind, and the sea every awful name I could think of.

  “Goddamn it, you’re not going to throw me over, you friggin’ son-of-a bitch!”

  As if obeying my demands, the wind died down a bit. I aimed at Macomek and tried to make forward progress, but the kayak climbed every wave and slammed down hard with a shudder. Desperate to keep my compass heading, I inched along, arm muscles crying for a break. I dared only to flex my fingers.

  The wind blew up again and turned into a screaming menace in an instant. I screamed back, lost my bearing, and was on the edge of losing all hope when to my starboard side a shadowy black mound materialized though the pelting rain.

  The island with the cove I’d passed on the way out.

  I turned in that direction and made for it. If nothing else, I could shelter on the lee side away from the full force of the wind and accompanying waves. I’d huddle there until the gale passed by.

  With the wind behind me, I surf-boarded the crest of twenty-foot rollers and advanced toward the island. But as I approached, those enormous waves crashed into island’s rock face and threw me back out to sea. For the second, third, and fourth time, I tried to make forward progress, only to be pitched backwards.

  Exhausted, soaked, and frustrated beyond words, I back-paddled to catch my breath. Even with an island so very close, my ballgame was heading south and fast. I was weary on the way to being exhausted, shivering violently from the cold, and my reasoning was slogging into slow motion.

  That’s why I believed the motorboat bucking whitecaps was a mirage. I wiped rainwater from my eyes. No, my rattled brain did not imagine it. A lobster boat was heading right for me.

  As he approached, the captain waved from behind his wheel. His white hair stuck out from beneath a baseball cap with a brim that dripped onto his already soaked yellow slicker. The man looked familiar, but I couldn’t place him.

  Keeping a safe distance in the messy sea, he leaned against his gunwale and yelled over the howling wind. “Do you need a tow?”

  “No,” I hollered. “Block the wave slosh off the rocks, and I’ll keep to your port side.”

  He saluted, put the boat into reverse, slowly backed up, turned her around, and waited for me to come alongside. Passing the stern, I laughed out loud at the boat’s name—Sea Angel.

  Protected from the backwash, I easily paddled next to Sea Angel as she motored alongside the island’s rocky ridge. When the captain rounded the end of a spit, I could see that the granite headland we’d traversed was matched by another several hundred yards away. Together, like welcoming arms, the twin headlands reached into the sea and protected a little bay from the ocean’s onslaught.

  As Sea Angel pulled ahead, I whispered thanks to the Catholic god I’d ignored for fifteen years. The lobster boat approached its mooring, and I passed between the twin bluffs and glided into waters that hardly knew the hell brewing on the other side.

  My white-haired savior stepped into his tender, untied it from the mooring, settled onto the seat, and picked up the oars. I waited until he slid the dinghy high up the beach before I came ashore and climbed out of my cockpit.

  Striding back down the stony little beach in black rubber boots he said, “That’s one hum-dingah of a blow out theah. Bet you got knocked around in that skinny little boat.”

  The voice was at once warm and commanding. I remembered Abby pointing out the clean-shaven old lobsterman in Macomek Harbor, but I couldn’t recall his name.

  “I was on my way out to search for ya, Mara, when I spotted the kayak off the island. By Godfrey, am I tickled to see you’re here in one piece.”

  Shifting from one foot to the other on shaky legs I said, “Not nearly so happy as I was to see you, ah.…”

  “Where’re my manners? I’m Lester Crawford. ” He reached out, enveloped my right hand in both his giant ones for a moment, and stepped back. “Abby’s been on the VHF frantic. Let’s go up to the shack an’ let the ol’ gal know you’re heah with me.”

  I pulled a dry bag with a change of clothes from one of my hatches. Following Lester across the cobble beach, I considered his name as we walked along a well-worn path that led to a shingled garage-like building on high ground. Gordy had called the dead lobsterman Buddy Crawford. The old guy seemed to be in good spirits, so surely he and Buddy couldn’t be related. Crawford was a common Maine name.

  Saying that his radio was in the back, Lester walked across the cement floor and disappeared behind a stack of old wooden lobster traps.

  Staring at the traps and still recovering from my ordeal, I was bothered by something buried in the back of my mind that seemed important. Whatever it was didn’t manifest itself.

  I pulled off my wetsuit, quick-changed into dry clothes, and scanned the room. Lobster fishing paraphernalia was everywhere. Neatly stacked, antique traps lined the back, their gray half-moon sides facing forward. Coiled loops of yellow, red, and blue line shared one wall with banged-up wooden lobster buoys arranged by color and shape, mostly dull reds and blues. Unlike bullet-shaped modern buoys, these antique ones had hard edges and looked like little towers. An odd assortment of gear decorated the facing wall—nets, oars, baskets, gaffs, and poles.

  The collection was a museum of sorts—Maine lobstering in the old days. I recognized the traps piled in the back as the old-fashioned ones made with slats. They were about four feet long, two high, with flat bottoms and round tops. Stacked, the antique traps looked liked piles of big birdcages. In contrast to today’s Styrofoam ones, the buoys hanging on the wall were also wood. In the old days, Mainers hand-carved a spruce or cedar spindle or maybe a small keg and attached the homemade buoy to a trap with tarred line. Since wood floats, traps were weighed down with rocks or bricks. Every trap was hand-pulled from wooden boats the early fishermen rowed.

  That was as age of spruce traps, brightly colored spindle-buoys, and lobster boats rowed to and from shore. Lobstermen back then could not have imagined a day when a boat could cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. Old-timers would be even more astounded to learn that some of today’s lobstermen could pull four hundred traps a day and gross more than many of their non-fishing neighbors.

  On the wall, a lone photograph beside one of the nets leaned at an angle. Thinking it might fall to the floor, I walked over and lifted the framed photo off the wall to check the wires. They looked secure. There was noth
ing on the cracked backing that identified people in the old image, so I slid it back onto the nail and leaned in to take a look.

  A slimmer version of Lester with dark hair knelt beside a lobster trap. The cluster of children facing him were about nine or ten, and the woman behind them was probably in her twenties. It looked like someone had photographed young Lester as he was explaining how traps worked to some of the island’s school children and their teacher. Slim and attractive, she looked vaguely familiar, but in profile it was hard to tell.

  I stepped away from the wall as Lester rounded a trap tower. “That Abby is all heart. She started cryin’  when I said you were okay.”

  Picturing Abby’s tears, I cringed. Completely focused on getting to safety, I’d failed to realize that she always listened for weather alerts and would have assumed the worst when I hadn’t returned to the island.

  “Lester, it’s awful I made Abby worry. Should I use your radio and talk to her now?”

  “Nah. Now she knows you’re with me, she’s all right.”

  “You’ve got quite a collection here.” Pointing at the photograph, I said “That’s you with kids from the island?”

  He walked over and stared at the image. “’Tis.” Leaning in, he tapped the glass gently with a finger. “Abby when she was teachin’.” Fixed on the image, he was suspended in time and memories. In the back room, the radio crackled.

  “Be right back,” he said.

  As Lester shuffled across the floor toward me, I met him halfway. Denim eyes bluer than his navy shirt, the man stared like he’d never seen me before.

  I put a hand on his arm. “Are you all right?”

  He blinked. “To be truthful, I’m not. Let’s go in the back where I can sit down. I’m a talker an’  it’d be good for me to get it out.”

  Hoping he’d prove me wrong, I suspected what was coming and followed him. The pile of pots hid a door leading to a room just big enough for a table, two chairs, and a counter with a gas burner, dented kettle, and carboy of water.

  Lester fell back into a chair and rubbed his eyes. “A terrible, terrible thing’s happened.”

  “Lester, would you like something hot? Coffee, maybe?”

  “That would be good, child.” He nodded toward several small wooden boxes stacked under the counter. “Coffee’s in the box nearest the stove theah with the matches. Kettle’s already got watah in it. Tea’s there too if you want some.”

  The stink of stale alcohol hit me as I bent down to search for the coffee and matches. Waiting for the kettle to boil, I found the source of the foul odor. On the floor between the counter and the wall, three empty bottles of Jack Daniels whiskey leaned against each other in a metal pail. Abby had mentioned a terrible anniversary—the day Lester’s sternman had died in a storm. Unless Lester had a drinking problem, it looked like the day had recently passed and the man was still wracked by grief and perhaps guilt years after the event. If Buddy and Lester were related, a second horrible anniversary might be too much for him to endure.

  I handed Lester the mug of steaming instant coffee and settled in the chair on the other side of the table with my own mug of tea. He sipped the coffee, stared down into the mug, coughed, and raked a hand down his face. “Abby jus’ told me some awful news. Buddy, my grandson.” Lester coughed again. “He’s dead.”

  Two things raced through my mind. Gordy was right in thinking the man under his raft was Buddy Crawford. But why had it taken so long for the police to contact Buddy’s family? Now was certainly not the time to voice the question.

  I leaned toward him. “Oh, Lester. I am so terribly sorry. Is there anything, anything at all, I can do for you? Maybe call someone? Do you want company or would it be better for me to leave? The storm’s blown over so I can easily paddle back to Macomek.”

  Lester stared blankly at me for a moment before he got his bearing. “Buddy, he was a good kid, outstandin’  lobstahman.” He blinked. “Would you like to hear ’bout him?”

  I reached out and put my hand on his. “Of course, Lester. I’d love to hear about Buddy.”

  Lester coughed and wiped his mouth. “He, Buddy is—was—oh God.” The old man looked down and shook his head.

  I squeezed his hand. “Sure you want to do this now?”

  “Pardon me.” He pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and blew his nose. “Talkin’ ’bout him, it’s a way of, I don’t know.…”

  “Honoring him?”

  “That’s it.”

  I sat back to hear the old lobsterman’s story.

  Lester blew out a breath. “Crawfords been lobsterin’ in Maine for generations. Not even sure how far back. But my son, name’s Todd, said he wanted somethin’ else. Can’t blame ’im. Life out heah, it’s hard. But still, that hurt all the same. Like I disappointed Crawfords all down the line. But Buddy,  he wasn’t like his dad. Said he wanted to be a lobstahman like me.”

  Lester choked back a sob, picked up his mug, put it back down.

  Leaning forward I said, “Lester.…”

  He held up a hand. “I’m all right. Like I said, it’s good talkin’  ’bout the boy.” Lester went on. “Buddy stared out as sternman with me, then Calvin Ives. ’Couple yeahs ago Buddy got his own boat. Did pretty good an’  in the last yeah he did incredible. Traded the old boat for a fancy new one. Got more traps, new GPS, all that.”

  Lester got to his feet. “I got lots of photos with Buddy in ’em.”

  Watching as Lester rifled through a wooden crate, I blinked back tears. The man was literally touching decades of family memories—photos with babies and kids at school, of clam bakes and fishing expeditions, at Christmas and birthday parties. And now, in an instant, memories of one cherished grandson would come to a halt. Anguish flowed through me, so powerful I nearly sobbed.

  By the time Lester had selected two black and white photos, I’d pulled myself together. He slid the photographs across the table. Holding down the curling edge of one with his thick forefinger, he said, “That’s Buddy with me. He was seven, maybe eight.”

  The younger Lester looked even more like a giant lumberjack than the elder version. A towhead grinned up at him, one front tooth missing.

  In the larger photo a row teenagers clowned for the camera. “He’s at the end an’  was somethin’  like sixteen in that one.”

  I picked up the image for a closer look. To the far right, a longer-haired version of Buddy wore a Red Sox baseball cap. Next to him, a cocky young man who winked at the photographer had his arm draped over the shoulder of an attractive girl who rolled her eyes. I handed Lester the image. “Who is standing next to Buddy?”

  Squinting, he said, “Oh, that’s Calvin Ives. Always teasin’ the girls.”

  Dropping the photos on the table, Lester fell into his chair, choked back a sob, and said, “Why? Why would anyone want to hurt Buddy? He was a great guy. Everyone liked Buddy.”

  He buried his face in his hands. I tried to think of something to say, but anything that came to mind seemed insipid.

  Finally, he ran a hand through his hair. “Talkin’s not gonna bring Buddy back, is it? Mara, there’s family things I gotta do on the mainland so I’ll guess I bettah get a move on. You’ll paddle that little boat back to Macomek okay?”

  I got to my feet. “If the storm has gone by, I’ll be fine.”

  The weather radio told us that an “unusually fast-moving gale” had left Macomek’s waters. Outside, we stood on the bluff and scanned a flat sea off the little island.

  I said, “It’ll be a very easy paddle back to Macomek.” Lester stared straight ahead. I put my hand on his arm. Below the soft denim, solid muscle attested to decades of dripping fifty-pound lobster traps pulled up out of the water.

  “Lester, I’m so very sorry for your news and wish we could’ve met at a happier time for you. Thanks for calling Abby, I really do appreciate it.”

  He managed a slight smile. “That Abby.”

  “There’s no way I can thank you fo
r taking your lobster boat out and finding me. You probably saved my life.”

  “Happy to do it.”

  “Before I go, can you tell me what this place is? Your collection, why it’s here?”

  The smile got a little wider, and I guessed that talking about his old traps and the rest was a comforting, if momentary, distraction.

  “This shack? When I was really lobsterin,’ you know, hundreds ’o traps, I kept my gear mostly here. More room then on the island. Friend of my grandfathah owned it, but everyone calls it Lester’s Rock these days. Anyways, when lobsterin’ started to change, I got to collectin’ old gear. That’s pretty much all that’s heah now.” He gestured toward Macomek. “I’m alone back there. Wife’s gone, son lives inland. Abby.…” He coughed. “Um, so I guess the gear’s like an ole friend that keeps me company.”

  10

  The paddle back gave me time to think, mostly about Lester. I felt desperately sad for the venerable fisherman who kept antique gear for company and had just lost his only grandson, the one Crawford who had preserved a cherished family tradition. I already considered Lester a friend, and while I didn’t press it with him, my protector as well.

  I’d traveled to Macomek Island to help Gordy, the cousin who’d saved my life not so long ago. Now I had a second urgent reason to discover who killed Lester’s only grandson.

  I thanked Lester aloud. “If you and your little island hadn’t been right there, I really might be dead.”

  Dead.

  It bugged me that Gordy had been convinced Buddy was the dead man under his raft several days before Lester was informed. Odd, but maybe the delay had something to do with official identification of the body.

  I’d just gotten out of the kayak on Abby’s beach when she ran down the shingle to my side and threw her arms around me. “My goodness, deah. You gave me an awful scare.”