Billingsgate Shoal (20 page)

I listened on for the tide report, then ran forward
again and switched it off. For the nonce I had nothing to worry
about. The
Hatton
was
booming along nicely, and I should have no trouble reaching Dennis by
five. I cracked open a beer and kept my eyes on the buoys. Smalley
Bar slid past my starboard side. I looked up at Little Beach Hill on
Great Island where a pirate tavern had stood in the old days. Had
Walter Kincaid fulfilled his dream by discovering a horde of lost
treasure? If so did he still have it, or did something grievous
befall him? Whether he was alive or dead, Wallace Kinchloe was dead
for sure. Someone else was then using his identity. That person
appeared to be James Schilling. I kept puzzling over this as I passed
Jeremy Point. Lieutenant's Bar was ahead on my port bow. When I
reached it, I would be at the foot of Billingsgate Island, where it
had all started. A few minutes later I was there. There was no island
to be seen though, because it was high tide. Billingsgate lay about
three feet under, which meant that I could wade over it. But I stayed
clear; the
Hatton's
centerboard was down, which meant she was drawing five and a half
feet. I had read somewhere that Billingsgate wasn't always a sunken
island.

There was a village on it up until around 1845 when
the inhabitants noticed it was sinking. The tides were creeping
higher and higher and gales caused waves to sweep entirely over
it—something that had never before happened. So they left. They
took their houses with them too—just jacked them up, put them on
rollers, and lugged them over to the mainland. And that was that.

Lieutenant's Point slid by on the port side. I
glanced at the chart that was weighted down against the wind by three
smooth beach rocks. I was leaving Wellfleet Channel, and headed the
boat directly toward the ragged hulk of the target ship James
Longstreet. The sky was clear cobalt blue, with puffy cotton-ball
clouds that scudded across it like the Great White Fleet. These puffy
clouds are known as the "cumulus of fair weather," and they
are associated with brisk, breezy days with high pressure and cool
temperature. Nice days. But they also oftentimes precede violent
weather, as the radio foretold for the next day. I took my marine
glasses and scanned the shoreline. There was The Breakers, snug by
herself on the blufftop. I peered again at the Longstreet. What was a
ship named for a Confederate general doing in the New England waters?
But then I remembered the planes from Otis Air Force Base had bombed
it for years, so it seemed to make some sense . . .In twenty minutes
I was within 1500 yards of the wreck, passing it on my way to Dennis.
Two small boats were within the forbidden zone. They were in no
danger of being shelled—the target hadn't been used in several
years—but they were liable for a stiff fine if caught by the Coast
Guard. The circle on the chart intrigued me, with fits tiny
half-sunken boat in its center, signifying a wreck. The words
Prohibited Area were printed in bright blue letters on the chart. I
swung the
Hatton's
nose a bit more to the west, pointing her smack for the flashing bell
buoy five miles a ahead. Another five miles beyond this buoy would
take me opposite the harbor of Bamstable. Two smaller harbors, Rock
Harbor and Sesuit Harbor, I would skip; they are too small for
anything
Penelope's
size.

The wind held nicely at five to eight knots, more
toward eight most of the afternoon. Shortly after four I was standing
off Barnstable, my sails down, with my diesel turning slowly.

I approached the place warily because Barnstable is
infamous for muddy shoals and rocks. The harbor is long, windy, and
narrow, and the channel continually shifts.

A short time later, I was officially in the harbor,
but from glancing around, you'd never know it. Low sand dunes gave
way to brownish-purple flats, ribbed and rippled from the ebbing
tide. I crept my way cautiously forward, keeping one eye on the depth
sounder. I cranked up the board. Drawing only two feet, I felt
confident that getting all the way in to Blish Point where the marina
was should be a piece of cake. It was. ,

I dropped anchor out in the far reaches of the harbor
where I could enjoy privacy and anonymity. When
Ella
Hatton
stranded herself in the falling tide I
unlashed the ten-speed bike from its place on the cabin top and
wheeled it ashore. I called in to Mary to say I was safe. Brian
Hannon had not been in touch. No news. I asked the harbormaster, the
tackle shop owner, and several of the pleasure boat set if they had
laid eyes on
Penelope
.
Got nos all around. I pedaled around the waterfront roads, inspecting
each and every building on the water big enough to conceal her.
Nothing. So much for Barnstable. While it was still low tide, I
walked back out to the boat, cooked my supper, and turned in. I
opened all the portholes to let the air in. The wind blew softly,
bringing with it the faraway cries of gulls and the smell of mudflats
and brine.

I awoke momentarily in the middle of the night,
feeling
Ella Hatton
swinging around her cable, the moving water chuckling around her
hull.

I left at next high water and was off to Sandwich,
the small harbor town that marks the northern terminus of the Cape
Cod Canal. Same story there: no
Penelope
.
All during my time at sea I approached every trawler I saw. I was
very careful if I saw an old basket hanging in the rigging because
that's the sign that they have a net working. I slipped in close and
hollered as we slid past each other. Had they seen a green trawler
Penelope
out of
Boston? They all answered no. I kept the radio on all the time,
hunting for gossip. The VHF crackled and droned and spit out a
constant stream of routine information. The CB bands contained
snatches of folksy conversation like: Charlene to Joe and Mary: "Hey,
Joey, you got any beer left? We're on a school here and we're and
can't leave. Over." Joe and Mary to Charlene: "I'm here.
Got two cases left. Can we come over and help you get what's left if
we give you one? I'm gone—"

I struck out all the way up the coast. The day was
hot and sticky and I was under power part of the time. I didn't want
to be late for my meeting with Jack up in Plymouth. Toward late
afternoon it cooled a bit and the breeze freshened. I cut the engine
and was making four knots on a broad reach with the board cranked
halfway up. It got darker and darker, and the water had an oily roll
to it. Bad weather coming.

I was standing off Plymouth when it got really dark,
and scary. There was an electric feeling in the air of enormous
pressure. . .of tremendous energy about to be released. The gulls
were gone, either inland or in safe water, huddled in small rafts of
bobbing birds. The wind got downright chilly. I dove below and got a
Windbreaker, and scanned ahead for the four-second flash off Gurnet
Point. It stood out clearly in the falling light. As I drew nearer, I
would look for the giant Miles Standish monument. But for now it was
obscured by the gathering clouds. A cold tickle of rain pelted me,
The wind stiffened still more; the telltales stood out straight from
the stays.
Ella Hatton's
blunt, wide nose was heaved up again and again, only to crash down
with wide falls of powder-white foam shooting outward before me. But
it was mostly a following sea that pushed from behind on her broad
transom, giving us a hundred miniature sleigh rides on the crest of
breaking waves. This kind of water lifts the whole boat in the
euphoric way. Then there is the rush of speed on the wave's peak and
at this instant, a giddy rooster-dance of wobbly falling, a
shuddering uncertainty of going into the trough. . . You are going
fast then, and it feels great. But if the water is big enough, and
the troughs deep enough, you can bury your bow and pitchpole right
into solid .water. That does not feel great. Or you can broach in the
trough and yaw broadside to all the water coming down on top of you.

The sea wasn't that high. Not yet. But it was doing
its damndest working on it. While there was still time I dropped the
main and gathered it into the wide cockpit as best I could. Then I
started the Westerbeke and revved it up pretty high to give me a lot
of headway.

I was doing seven knots. The dory was becoming a real
problem. In the following sea it had caught up with us. Twice it shot
forward on the curl of a breaker and almost rammed us. Fortunately,
it swung over to our port side and came around beside the
Hatton
.
I watched it warily. The last thing I needed, sailing in dirty
weather alone, was a guided missile in dory form leaping toward my
kidneys as I tried to navigate.

A sharp right at Duxbury Light led up a wide and
shallow channel called the Cowyard. This was a good anchorage
according to my marine atlas. A right jog led up another channel to
the town of North Plymouth, a rather industrial place with a big
commercial pier maintained by a cordage company.

At the light I headed to starboard, right smack for
the Miles Standish Monument on the top of Captain's Hill. I flipped
on the depth sounder as I crept into the Cowyard, finally cutting the
engine when it read six feet. The
Hatton
oozed along in a stall, and I dropped the big bow anchor over the
side with its twenty-foot length of chain, followed by a much longer
length of mooring line. When the flukes bit into the sand the line
around the bitt squealed and groaned. Then I drew the line in and
made it fast. I threw out a smaller anchor over the stern and did
likewise with it. The boat faced the channel flow, so currents
wouldn't build up on her broadsides.

Meanwhile the untended jib had been flipping and
flapping about, and I let it down and hauled it in. Though I was
shivering now, and soaked to the skin, I leaned over in the pelting
rain and unhooked it from the forestay and stuffed it down the
forehatch. It was growing darker and colder by the second. Thunder
rolled up from the south, and the faint glimmerings of lightning
flickered there. The rain was sincere now, in earnest you might say,
and sang down on the deck like a swarm of locusts: a high wavering
hiss. I longed for dry clothes and the warmth of the cabin, but I had
to raise the anchor light and bring in the dory first. Then I rigged
the "gizmo," a big tarp that fits over the boom and fastens
down on each side of the cockpit. It resembles a big pup tent, and
provides shelter over a great portion of the boat.

After rigging this contraption I was so cold and
miserable I regretted the whole journey. I squished along the
foredeck in my soaking Topsiders and rechecked the anchor lines and
the anchor light. At the stern, I pulled in the dory's tow line and
made her fast at my back door. Then I dove under the hatch and shed
the wet clothes. I was shaking so much I could hardly light the
lamps, but managed four times to dip the lighted kitchen match into
the brass slot and see the wicks come aglow. Then I placed the glass
chimneys back on and adjusted the flames. The four lamps lighted the
small cabin I space with golden light. I knew the oil lamps would
throw off a fair amount of heat as well as save my batteries. But as
the wind picked up and the temperature dropped still more, I knew the
night would be raw indeed. I had snuggled into a pair of jeans, an
undershirt, and a chamois-cloth shirt. But I was still cold, and so
lighted the tiny coal-fired heater near the galley sink. I placed the
special coal briquettes in the slotted grate over two pieces of
well-twisted newspaper, to which I set fire. A few seconds after
closing the small door on the firebox a powerful—though
miniature—draft was created in the stack, thus igniting the coal as
tobacco is set glowing in a briar pipe. Through the mica glass I
could see the cozy flicker of the fire sweep across the coals like
small waves. . .cascades of red and yellow: hot and hotter.

I hopped up and drew back the companionway. It was
perfect hell outside. It was raining almost sideways, and though
Ella
Hatton
rode remarkably level in the Cowyard
anchorage, the water gnashed angrily at her hull. The anchor light
was defiantly aflicker, though I doubt I would have braved the
weather to attend to it if it weren't. I saw the tiny conical chimney
top spouting its proud plume of smoke, like the Tin Woodsman blowing
smoke rings.

The wind howled and pelted rain. I dove back below
and slid the hatch closed. For ventilation, I kept part of the
companionway shutters open and the forward porthole ajar. There was a
hiss and a demonic crack, and blue-white light came shooting in beams
through the portholes. A terrific thunderclap followed, and the thump
thump thump of steady strong water against the
Hatton's
glass hull increased.

Although the thought of dinner haunted me, I decided
to skip the meal altogether. True, I could have filled my tummy with
all kinds of canned and cellophane-packed edibles and perhaps some
cold glunk. But why? It would be a miserable experience. But a stiff
Scotch did sound nice. I fetched a king-sized tumbler and poured a
moderate-sized dollop. I up-ended the bottle of Johnny Walker Red in
the glass and counted to seven. I added soda, no ice since I was half
frozen, and watched the mixture make little swirly lines and patterns
in the glass. . .like heat waves going in circles. Yummy.