That Good Night (28 page)

I didn't bother with sails; it was too busy with all the islands about. Slow ahead, it took a bit more than two hours before I was tied up at Portland Marine. A short cab ride had me at Arden's office. It was 1015 hours.

I tipped the cabbie and, being the old tar that I was, slung my duffle bag of money over my right shoulder, and walked briskly. The storefront office could easily pass for a 19th-century movie set: electrified gas lights, a pot-bellied stove, an oak wall clock with roman numerals and swinging pendulum. Green felt covered the receptionist desk. The computer was disguised behind an oak paneled screen. Miss Ethanridge, Arden's secretary, greeted me with bright hazel eyes behind cute wire-rimmed glasses. Her grey hair was pulled tightly into a pinned bun on the back of her head. She led me along a short hallway to a quaint waiting room just outside of Arden's office.

Directing me to a dark burgundy high winged-back leather chair complete with tufts and the wrinkles of age, she asked, “May I take your bag, Mr. Lambert?”

I answered, “No thank you, ma'am, I'll just hold onto her.”

She gave me a quiet smile. “Will you be having tea or coffee, Mr. Lambert?” she asked politely.

“Coffee, black please.”

“My pleasure. Please make yourself comfortable,” she said,
turning and leaving the room.

I placed my duffle to the left of my chair and sat down. On wood-paneled walls hung oil paintings of ships and commerce, portraits and renderings of old Portland, each painting with its own focused light. The floor was covered with a thick, fringed Sarouk carpet. To my right, separated by a leather topped end-table was a matching wing-backed chair. A damask covered sofa was across the room. Above it was a large gold-framed abstract seascape which reminded me of approaches to Bass Harbor Light.

Miss Ethanridge returned with coffee in a bone china cup and saucer, which she set on the table next to me. “Mr. Schmitt will be with you momentarily,” she said before exiting.

I hadn't sipped coffee from a china cup in…hell, I can't remember such formality. My lawyer back in upstate New York ran his business out of a scruffy office with a secretary dressed in a man's flannel shirt and blue jeans. Jackson Catrini was his name. He handled all the crap associated with running a business and let me tell you, he was one tough son-of-a-bitch. Once when I was being sued by a client for
disregarding the explicit tenets of the contract
, Jackson went at him with such fury that we settled out of court with the client giving me two grand just to dump the counter suit. Jackson died right around the time I lost Lori. Hell, everybody I knew is dead or has disappeared from my life. And here I am in Portland, Maine sitting amidst law office splendor, wondering what the hell I'm doing here. But what's the alternative? If Arden Schmitt was good enough for Bob then he's good enough for me. I've got to trust somebody.

Arden appeared from behind a heavy paneled door just to the right of the sofa. White shirt, striped red, gold and blue tie, dark blue suspenders, perfectly pressed charcoal gray pinstripe
trousers and cordovan wingtips were in complete contrast to what he had worn yesterday. Here I was in wrinkled kakis, an equally wrinkled blue short sleeved shirt, and worn Docksiders an army surplus duffle bag at my side.

“Good to see you again, Charlie,” Arden said, coming over. I stood and we shook hand. “I trust that Bob's place is all set. The funeral home called and reported that everything was in order for the arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” I asked softly.

“Bob's wishes are for his ashes to be spread around the island.”

“That sounds like Bob.” I was glad now that I tended to the lawn and flowers.

Arden's office carried on the décor of old New England prosperity. His antique mahogany desk sat in front of a large window overlooking Portland Harbor. Out there somewhere was
That Good Night
, waiting. That boat had become my home, my refuge, my future. Whatever I was or have become was tied to that vessel. She was my partner, my friend, protector, guardian of my soul. I was damn antsy to get back to her, to finish my voyage wherever it might take me.

Arden positioned himself behind his desk. I sat down in a comfortable chair facing him, clutching my duffle on my lap. “So, let's get down to business.” Sliding a paper my way, he said, “This is a bill of retainer. Sign it and we're all set. Our retainer charge is $10,000. Is that okay?”

I nodded my approval and signed the form.

“First of all, I need to deposit most of this,” I said, tapping my duffle. “My preference is that I can contact you for any amount I need. We'll need to figure out how you can get it to me. I have no address other than my boat and sending funds
to a Lat/Lon will probably not work.” Arden chuckled. “My guess is using a post office wherever I happen to be. Secondly, I want to write a will.

We spent a good part of two hours getting everything in order. Miss Ethanridge was charged with counting the money while Arden and I dealt with the will. I left his office just past noon with $25,000 dollars in cash stuffed in my pockets and a certified check in the amount of $10,000 as backup, which I had neatly folded in my buttoned shirt pocket. I decided to walk back to the marina dock even though it was hot and muggy. On my way, I stopped in at a sandwich shop, had a quick lunch, then bee-lined it back to
That Good Night
.

With the help of an experienced dock attendant, I moved
That Good Night
to the fuel dock to top off her tanks with diesel fuel and water. I took some extra time to run down my check list and found everything to be in order. I could have spent the night in Portland but, antsy to get underway, I decided to head down the coast, maybe stop in at Biddeford Pool or go further down to Portsmouth. The sky was clear blue, the barometer steady. I cast off from the fuel dock at 1310 hours.

Once clear of Portland Light, I raised the main, set the jib, trimmed to twelve knots of west-south-west wind, engaged the auto helm, and sat back to a glorious sail at a steady seven knots. What a beautiful day, a celebration, actually. The cool sea air was a welcomed relief. I went below, slipped a disc into the stereo, pushed the external speaker button and returned topside to listen to Bach's Brandenburg Concerto # 5. I grabbed a cushion, sat down on the starboard side and just listened: Bach accompanied by swishing saltwater flung aside by a slicing bow. There are few words to describe the feeling that enters a sailor's
soul when all the elements are working in favor of a great sail. One might think that these moments occur frequently in a sailor's life, but not so. More often than not, winds are on the nose, or there's no wind at all, or it's blowing snot or gusting all over the place. Absolute contentment is rare and needs to be savored. Sort of like life, huh?

Biddeford Pool was soon off to starboard but there was no way that I was going to put in, not sailing like this. The wind had shifted a bit north. I eased the sails to a reach picking up another knot and a half. Sunset was late this time of year, probably around nine or so. I could probably make Portsmouth by nightfall, especially at this rate.

Luckily, I hit the Piscataqua near slack ebb. This river has one of the nastiest currents in North America and hitting it at the wrong time is no fun. With the wind now nearly on my nose, I furled both main and jib, favoring motoring up river, Maine to starboard, New Hampshire to port. There's enough eye candy on both banks to make this harbor entrance one of my favorites. After rounding a few bends, I spotted the Portsmouth Naval Shipyard, actually a misnomer considering that the installation is really in Kittery, Maine. I swung
That Good Night
to port and tied up at the Portsmouth City Dock.

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.

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.

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
.