The Boat Thief

by M.D. Lee

  After a few more traps, Skinny Pete says from the helm, without looking back, “So how old are you? You seem pretty young to be out here on your own.”

  It’s funny; because in all these days working together this is the first time he’s asked me that. In fact, I don’t even think he remembers my name. “I’m thirteen,” I reply. He thinks about that as he works his hand through his beard and steers the boat to the next trap.

  “Thirteen, huh? I remember thirteen,” he says. “I had an awful crush on this girl in my homeroom, but I don’t think she even knew I was there. I was always too afraid to talk to her. I should’ve talked to her, man.” Skinny Pete doesn’t say much after that; he’s too busy staring at the horizon beyond the bow.

  I open up the top of the next trap that Skinny Pete brings up but it’s empty, so I refill it with fresh bait before pushing it back over the side. With a splash, it sinks out of sight.

  Skinny Pete then says, “Do you have a girl like that; one you have a crush on? If you do, don’t ever look back, and say, ‘I should have.’” He smiles, but there’s a kind of lost, faraway look on his face. Then he says, “In fact, don’t ever look back on your life and say, ‘I should have’ to anything; you dig what I’m saying?” He continues to run his hand through his thick beard as if the answer to life is hiding somewhere deep inside it. I’m not sure I know what, exactly, he’s talking about, but I think I have a vague idea.

  “I sort of have a girlfriend,” I say, as the next trap comes to the surface. But after I say that, I’m not too sure, because we’ve only kissed a few times . . . so does that make Sara my girlfriend? There really aren’t any rules about that sort of thing and, honestly, I never paid any attention to the other kids in my class who were “going out.” I wonder if Sara thinks of me as her boyfriend? Maybe she’s just one of those girls who goes around kissing guys more as just a fun thing to do, and doesn’t think of it as anything more? I bait another trap and push it back into the water.

  “Well, man, you’re a damn hard worker for just thirteen. I’ve worked with a lot of dudes who talked a big talk but did squat. I’d take you on anytime as a deck hand.”

  A grin breaks out across my face. No one’s ever said that to me before; certainly not my dad. I look out across the water, thinking about what he said, while I wait for the next trap to surface.

  Without warning, the diesel engine makes a loud screeching noise, wheezes like it’s being strangled, and then goes silent. Skinny Pete slams a fist into the side of the cabin and shouts, “Mother of God!” Then he pounds his fist a few more times for good measure.

  I’m afraid to ask, but I do anyway. “What just happened?”

  “We just rolled over the goddamn rope to the trap. It’s wrapped itself tight around our prop. The engine’s seized!” Skinny Pete slams his fist into the side of the cabin again, then throws his hat to the floor.

  I look over the transom, but all I can see is a piece of rope floating out from under us. With the bellowing of the diesel engine now quiet, I can hear more things around us; like how hard the wind’s really blowing.

  The whole time we’ve been out, the weather’s gradually worsened, with overcast skies and an increase in wind. I don’t think a storm’s blowing in, but in the last hour the waves are bigger, making pulling traps really hard. It’s probably the strong wind that pushed us back over one of the lobster traps, wrapping the trap’s line tightly around our prop. Now we’re dead in the water, drifting.

  “What’re we going to do about it?” I ask.

  “I don’t know, man. Someone has to swim under the boat and cut all the rope off the prop, and it ain’t going to be easy.” I look over the side again. The water is looking kind of dark, and waves are slapping the side of the hull. It doesn’t seem like a good idea for anybody to be in the water, especially under a pitching boat.

  “Can’t we get on the radio and call someone for a tow back?”

  That seems to anger Skinny Pete even more. “No,” he says flatly. “We are not doing that.”

  “How come? That’s why you have the radio on board; to call for help when you need it. Well, we need help.”

  He looks at me strangely,, and it scares me a bit as his eyes, like daggers, bear down on me. “No! We are not going to call for help, and don’t ask me that again, you stupid little troll!” He turns his back and stares out at sea.

  “Is there any other way?” I ask, knowing the answer is no. I’m hoping he has some sort of lobsterman trick to free up a prop, like a big knife attached to a long, hooked pole. He just shakes his head.

  “Are you going to swim under the boat?” I ask. “Somebody has to.”

  “No way, man. No . . . friggen. . . way!”

  “Well what’re we going to do? We’ll drift out to sea, and no one will ever find us,” I say, with a quiver in my voice.

  “I have no idea,” Skinny Pete says, his face starting to look a little ashen. “But there’s no friggin way I’m going under the boat. I’d rather drift forever than go under there.” Then, as if by magic, a rum bottle appears in his hand, and he takes a hard draw. He ingests a gulp of air and then another long hit. It’s almost half empty!

  Our situation’s going from bad to ugly. At the pace Skinny Pete’s hitting the bottle, it’s only going to be a matter of minutes before he’s passed-out drunk, and being dead in the water, with the weather starting to build, there’s no telling what might happen to us. There’s no way around it; I’m going to have to swim under the boat to cut the prop free.

  I start to pull off my jacket, but my hands are shaking so much it makes it hard to hang onto the zipper. “Do you have a knife?” I say to Skinny Pete.

  A laugh begins to boil out of him as he sits himself down in the helm seat and the rum bottle clanks next to him. “You’re going to jump over the side and cut us fhreeeh.” Slurring his words, he laughs harder and takes another draw off the bottle.

  In my pocket, I can feel the knife Sara gave me. I pull it out and flip open the largest blade to study it. It isn’t the biggest knife in the world, but I keep it razor sharp; it’ll do the job. Whenever I look at it, it reminds me of Sara, which is comforting. If I were to lose it in the water I’d be sick. With a length of line I tie one end to the knife and the other end to my wrist.

  This is it; I’m going to do it. I drop my jeans to the deck and stand there in my underwear, goose bumps popping up, looking over the side into the darkening water. I close my eyes, and trying not to think about what I’m about to do, slowly count down from ten. “. . . three . . . two . . . one.” And then I leap over the side, hitting the water feet first.

  “HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!!” I scream the second my head pops up to the surface. The water’s ice cold and I can hardly breathe. It’s like someone hit me in the stomach with a baseball bat. Maine water is cold!

  On instinct I start swimming away from the boat to build up some warmth. Then, after a few hard strokes, I turn around and swim as fast as I can back to the boat. The water’s so cold it’s painful. The split-second I’m at the side of the boat I grab hold of the rail and hoist myself back in, flopping on the deck like a hooked flounder. Scrambling back to my feet, I jump up and down by the rail, dripping cold, salty water, and look back down at the dark water.

  I’m going to have to get back in, there’s no other way, and by now Skinny Pete’s probably too drunk to even stand up. I don’t see him anywhere so he must’ve stumbled down to his bunk.

  I try to calm myself so I can breathe normally and take deeper breaths to swim under the boat. It’s going to be cold, I tell myself, so don’t let it bother you. I’m just going to pretend the cold water’s like those guys who walk across red hot coals . . . it’s all in my head. I’m going to tell myself it’s only a feeling; nothing else.

  Without another thought, I leap over the side and let myself sink under the surface―then swim straight for the prop. Yes, it’s damn cold, but I put it out of my head so I can focus on the task at hand: f
ree the prop.

  Though it’s in front of my face, I can barely see the tail of the rope that binds the prop, so I grab hold of it to use it to pull myself closer to where I need to be.

  Swimming under the wildly pitching boat’s like trying to crawl under a bucking bronco. Growing on the bottom of this bronco, however, are sharp barnacles that’ll cut me to shreds. Sure enough, seconds later, before I’m even near the prop, the lurching boat scrapes my forehead. Luckily it’s so cold, I don’t feel the wound to my forehead. It’s numb. I remind myself to be extra careful and stay clear of the boat hull. My life depends on it!

  Once at the prop, through the darkness, I can make out a mass of rope bundled tightly around the shaft. With my knife in hand, and the blade already out, I attack it, cutting ferociously. I don’t want to be under the boat a second longer than I need to be. The rope’s thick, and the few seconds of cutting doesn’t seem to do a thing. But my lungs feel like they’re going to explode, and I have to resurface.

  I pop my head above the surface and suck in air as if I’d just sprinted a half mile. While treading water, the salt stings my eyes. I need to build up the courage to do it all over again.

  Before I can chicken out, I dive under the water and attack it once again with my jackknife. It doesn’t get any easier, and the progress is almost zero. Am I even cutting through the rope? I wonder. I need to get this done fast because in this frigid water my strength and energy’s almost done! Five more minutes in the Maine water and I’m just going to be a floating, blue corpse. I resurface a second time to regain my strength.

  Before hypothermia can set in, I dive down again, knife in hand. The whole process of trying to cut through the thick, bound rope is beginning to seem useless, but I keep at it, pushing the knife as hard as I can. The pain in my lungs is beginning to feel like fire. I want nothing more than a deep breath of fresh air. The urge to suck in is unbearable, but it would be cold sea water filling my lungs, drowning me in seconds. I’ve always heard that drowning’s not as painful as one would think, but I sure don’t want to find out for myself. I cut even faster. Suddenly, the knife hits the bronze of the propeller shaft; I’m through. With my other hand I grab hold of the rope and pull it all off as effortlessly as noodles falling off a fork. Without a second to spare, I shoot to the surface.

  When my head breaks free I clutch the side of the boat and I take in big volumes of air. Oh . . . that feels good!

  I’m exhausted like I just sprinted a mile―and won. I did it! I really did it! I throw my fist in the air triumphantly! But there’s no one around to tell me I’ve done a good job. Who cares? I don’t. I know what I’ve done.

  The prop’s freed up, the engine should start, and we’ll be able to head back to Hunter’s Island. Bobbing there in the water, I see that the sky has gotten a little darker, and that the wind has chopped up the sea more, giving it all a very sinister look. We need to go.

  After my breathing slows a little, I’m able to climb back up over the side of the boat and collapse onto the deck.

  Laying here on the bait-stained deck, I don’t feel cold at the moment because the air, compared to the water, feels so much better. I remain here for a minute longer, watching the gray sky above.

  There’re some old rags piled in a corner that smell awful, but I use them anyway to dry myself off, and then I get back into my clothes. But now’s when I really begin to feel a deep cold, and shivering overtakes my body.

  Looking down below, I can see Skinny Pete’s feet hanging off the end of the bunk. He’s passed out; much like the day I found him that morning when his boat showed up. Again, just like that day, I go down below with a broom handle and give him a hard poke. Nothing. I really want to hit him over the head with the handle, but he’s out cold and would never feel a thing. He’ll probably remain this way until tomorrow morning.

  I’m going to have to drive the boat back to the dock myself. It’s no big deal because I’ve driven the sailing club’s launch many times, so it should be a lot like that, only bigger.

  I push hard on the starter button. The starter motor below the floor boards whines loudly as it turns the diesel engine over. Bang! A big puff of black smoke shoots out of the exhaust, but the engine’s running. It’s a little rough at first, but then it starts to settle down, thumping away into a nice, easy rhythm as diesel engines do. When the engine sounds like its running solid, I ease the shift lever forward and gently give it some throttle. The boat begins to glide forward through the water. Yeah, man! I did it! We’re heading back, and it’s no thanks to that drunk below. A smile spreads across my face that I can’t contain.

  Chapter 14

  Captured

  The little shack’s beginning to fill with light from the glow of the early morning sun streaming through the window. I flip the covers off the bed and stand up as I remember the events from yesterday.

  It was pretty crazy to jump over the side of the lobster boat into water so cold it could’ve killed me. But it had to be done, or there was no telling where we might be right now. Anything could’ve happened. We could’ve drifted up against a rock and smashed the boat to pieces. I did what was needed and I’m proud of it. Someday I’m going to be able to tell my friends back in Trent Harbor all about it.

  Ahh . . . Trent Harbor. I wonder what my friends are doing back home. Suddenly, once again, there is the pang of homesickness, which has become all too familiar over these last weeks. I’m not sure how much longer I can stay away, hiding on Hunter’s Island. My mood goes from proud, to sad, and stops at lonely. I’m getting so tired of it.

  Before I put on my shoes to head down to the dock, there’s a little fish wrapped up, left over from yesterday, which I grab for my breakfast. Each day the fish seems to get tastier. I suppose when that’s all you have to eat you learn to like it after a while. I sure wish I had some peanut butter and jelly.

  Not surprisingly, there’s still no sign of Skinny Pete down at the lobster boat. And when I look in, it’s just like the day he arrived―he’s still passed out in his bunk from the day before.

  This time, I grab him by his shirt and shake him hard. “WAKE UP,” I yell. “Get up, you stupid drunk.”

  “Whoa, man,” he manages to say, as he struggles to open his eyes. “What’s your deal? Why are you so harsh?” His head comes up, then flops back down on the bunk. “Be cool, man.”

  “What’s the deal? What’s the deal!?” I kick the bunk, hard. He looks at me with pure hatred, but he’s too soaked with rum to do anything about it. “We could be washed up on a rock somewhere out there, and no one would find us. And you did nothing but drink.” I give the bunk another kick and leave the boat.

  I’m frustrated, and need to burn it off. The tide’s out, so I go under the pier to do some pull-ups. It stinks under here, as it always does when the tide’s out, but I don’t pay attention because the pull-ups make me feel better. Without too much problem, I’m able to knock off a lot more reps than when I first started. Next, I do my rock lifts and rock curls. They, too, are becoming easier, so I push myself until I break out in a sweat. I must be getting stronger.

  It’s funny, but I don’t feel as scrawny as I used to. I don’t know if scrawny is a feeling, but as this summer goes by, I feel less like a runt. Lately, my clothes are feeling a little tight, which is soon going to become a problem. I’m not too sure what I’m going to do about that, but I’ll figure something out.

  “Dude.” It’s Pete, above me, on the pier.

  I stop lifting the heavy rocks and say nothing for a moment. I’m not sure I want to talk to Skinny Pete.

  “Dude,” he calls out again.

  I sigh. “What do you want?” I yell up to him.

  “I think it’s time we take all these bugs we’ve caught and sell them for some dineros.”

  That gets my attention. It sounds like a great idea to me because lobsters make pretty good money. I scramble up the bank, and then onto the pier, where he’s sitting with his legs over the
side. I sit down next to him

  “Where’re you going to sell them?” I ask, in a low voice. I’m still mad at him for yesterday.

  “Wyman Cove, man. It’s about seven miles or so from here. There’s a dude there I usually sell to who doesn’t ask too many questions. Are you hip with that?”

  That doesn’t sound right to me. I say, “What do you care if anyone asks questions? What do you mean?”

  He’s staring at his feet hanging off the pier, “I don’t mean anything. The man just takes what I have and gives me a fair price. No hassle.”

  I think about that, and say, “I’ll help you load them up, but I think I’ll stay behind. I’ve got things I need to do.”

  He looks right through me with his bloodshot eyes. He knows there’s a good reason I don’t want to be seen in any town. “All right, I’m cool with that. You help me load up, and I’ll run them in. I’ll use some of the dough for fuel, then we’ll split the rest. Slap me some skin.” He holds out a calloused hand for me slip him some skin as if that’ll erase what happened yesterday. Maybe it does, maybe it doesn’t; I let him hang.

  ***

  We spend most of the morning filling up tubs with fresh seawater on the back of the boat, then transferring our catch of lobsters from the past weeks into them. All available tubs are filled to the brim with salt water and lobsters. It’s been a good couple of weeks, and for me, who’s never earned money before, it’s like looking at barrels of money. I’m excited. I may be hiding out, but at the same time, I’m earning some good money. Even better money, probably, than if I’d been busing tables at the Sea Side restaurant.

  The diesel engine’s been warming up for the last fifteen minutes, and every last lobster has been loaded on. I’m just about to cast off the lines when I say, “Skinny Pete. Do you think you could bring back some hamburgers? That would be so good.” He smiles and nods in agreement.

  I add, “And maybe some peanut butter, too. That would be swell.” He gives me a salute.

  I toss the last dock line on board and give the bow a shove off the dock with my foot. Skinny Pete gives the boat some throttle, and black smoke chugs from the exhaust stack while he pulls away. Once again, I’m alone.