The list grew. The piles and stocks of supplies grew consequently. These items were transported semi-surreptitiously down to the Hatton's slip in, Wellfleet Harbor where, incidentally, there had been no sign whatsoever of Penelope. My beard was half grown and emerging iron gray. Dark glasses and a big floppy canvas hat helped further to keep my face hidden. With Jack helping out, I managed to secure the cargo aboard the Ella Hatton. It was two weeks past Labor Day but the harbor was still full. The hard-core sailors didn't take their boats out until late October. A few diehards have been known to leave their boats in the water all winter, going on the assumption it won't freeze solid. If it does, the boat has had it, crushed between packs of moving ice like a grape in a wine press.
When we were finished, every cubby, hatch, and shelf in the Hatton's interior was filled with canned hams, fresh corn and melons, cases of soda water and beer, wedges of cheese, cigars and pipe tobacco, and everything else needed for a couple of weeks afloat in comfort and style.
Ella Hatton's antique appearance comes mostly from her rig. The wide, low sails and the graff rig, the bowsprit and the jibboom all bespeak an earlier age: the turn-of-the-century fishing and clamming industry on the Cape where these boats originated. Also the wheel, tiny portholes, wide rudder, and her soft, blocky lines have the plain, rugged look of a commercial craft rather than the sleek, faintly fragile appearance of the racing yachts.
She draws just two feet of water with her centerboard up, which means that she can be beached. Also, because of her flat bottom and wide shape, she sits perfectly upright when stranded on a tidal flat. This is important because in Cape Cod Bay stranding is a common, often times intentional thing, and a boat that sits level is far more comfortable than one that lies on her side.
Jack and I finished stowing the gear after I had placed the two twenty-five-pound blocks of ice into the icebox beneath the cockpit seat. Then we closed the teak shutters, drew back the main hatch, and locked up tight with a big brass padlock. In the morning I would top up the fuel and water tanks and cast off.
"It seems to me we put about two tons of stuff aboard," said Jack as he stood up on the dock looking down at the catboat, "but she doesn't seem any lower in the water or anything."
"She's as wide as a pie pan. Maybe that's why."
We went back to The Breakers for dinner.
A driftwood fire was crackling away in the grate. I unrolled the charts on the low coffee table and we poured over them, roughly outlining my mission. Mary was to be settled in at the domicile in Concord with Joe, who was coming for an extended visit. He loved his Beacon Hill flat, but a sojourn in the countryside-particularly in fall-was an annual custom he looked forward to. From my point of view, considering certain recent events and possible future complications, I was glad an armed officer of the law would be staying with Mary.
Tony had finished his summer job in New Hampshire and was up in Acadia National Park camping with friends. Jack would return to Concord with Mary in the morning; I didn't want him or any of my family at The Breakers without me.
I told them I would head west along the inside of the Cape first, nosing my way into the small harbors of Barnstable and Sandwich. From there I would either head north to Plymouth, or south through the Cape Cod Canal down into Buzzards Bay and the oceanside, although I doubted this. Whatever was happening-if anything-was happening in the Bay, or to the north.
Next morning after the breakfast dishes were cleaned and put away, we shut The Breakers up tight, hiding all the valuables and locking it. Then Jack and I dragged the twelve-foot Swampscott dory up from the beach and put it on the roof rack of his Land Cruiser. We stowed the tiny British outboard engine in the back and headed for the harbor. I would tow the fiberglass dory behind the Hatton. It would enable me to come ashore from any anchorage and provide easy dockside access in any harbor I chose to enter. Besides these conveniences, it was unsinkable (the Hatton, with its lead ballast, was not) and would make a good lifeboat should the Hatton swamp in a heavy sea or dash herself to pieces on a ledge.
When everything was in order I kissed Mary good-bye and reminded her that I would call once a day without fail. She clung a bit too hard, too long. She was still worried.
Jack was to follow her to Concord and spend a few days there, tentatively to arrive in Plymouth on the third day to reconnoiter with me and the Hatton.
The two cars made tight turns in the harbor parking lot, then glided up to the mainroad, turned, and vanished.
I made ready and cast off.
When I was clear of the harbor, I cut the engine to a crawl and I began to watch my "telltales." These are strips of fuzzy orange yarn tied to my stays. They blow in the wind and indicate its direction. I wanted to be directly into the wind when I raised the main. I winched it up and the boom and gaff flapped spastically back and forth. The jib followed. The sails flip-flapped stupidly until I turned the Hatton downwind a bit, until the telltales were parallel to the leading edge of the sails as I hauled them tight. Then, a change came over Ella Hatton. The sails caught. The boat heeled slightly, and there was a sense of force, pressure, and function. I cut the diesel. In a few seconds our speed picked up because the slow-turning prop had feathered itself, thus decreasing the resistance of the boat in the water. I trimmed the sails still more and adjusted the Hatton's course.
When a sailboat is properly trimmed in a fresh breeze-when the wind direction, hull, and sails are all in perfect symphony-she trembles. It is a stiffening tremble, as in a woman reaching orgasm-a vibrancy of energy and force that tells the experienced helmsman that the boat is performing optimally.
With the engine cut, there was only the sound of rushing water and the creaking of the sheets and blocks. I sat holding the wheel and kept Ella Hatton heading south. Both sheets were fastened in jam cleats. These are cleats that hold the lines by means of toothed cam gears, and can be released immediately in a strong puff of wind. Jam cleats have made solo sailing easier and safer. The Hatton bounced and dipped along; I watched the green-blue water slide past, sending up never-ending streams of bubbles and tiny whirlpools of silver air and water. Farther back the brine swirled white-gray in endless filigrees of foam. There was the hiss and chuckle of moving water. The hiss I find a particularly pleasant sound, the sound of effervescence, like soda water or champagne.
I slipped the loop of heavy line over the longspoke of the wheel and dove into the hatchway long enough to turn on the radio. The dial was on the VHF channel l62.5-the weather frequency. Amidst the buzzing, squelches, and droning came the steady voice of the Weather Bureau. "… winds west, northwest five to eight knots, freshening to ten to twelve knots by late afternoon… barometer thirty point two and steady… seas one to three and rising… forecast fair and windy tonight with partial cloud cover, visibility nine miles… tomorrow windy and cool, with squalls likely in the evening…"
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.
I lay back in the bunk on the starboard side. A porthole was directly to my right. Above and behind me to the left was the companionway. Wicked sounds scudded down through it. Sounds of mad water and storm. And then I became fully conscious of the building din in my ears: the crashing of the rain upon the cabin top and decks. It roared and pounded. It ran and whispered in mounting rivulets along the coaming and through the scuppers.
I smuggled into the down covers and sipped., Outside there was wrack and ruin all about me: gale-force winds, pelting rain, and angry tide. Two feet from me was cold water, dark with endless murky bottoms and slimy things. I was alone, floating in a howling gale. But inside, the gimballed lamps shone brightly, the coal stove sent. forth its warm radiance. The whiskey had tugged lovingly at my brain now, so it was a wee bit soft at the edges. It was like the filmy curl of a breaker-that leading edge of a breaking wave that foams and tumbles leaping onward, that fizzes outward slightly in delicious anticipation of the Great Going On.
I shook the tiny grate and closed the damper cover halfway. The coals, now diminished, glowed merrily. Temporarily braving the storm's ferocity, I opened the hatch shutters and stuck my head out under the gizmo canopy. The rain sound shifted from a drum roll to a rattlesnake hiss. The anchor light was fine. I plunged back down below, leaving the shutters open. It would get cold in the cabin now. I blew out the gimballed lights, tossed off the last of the Scotch, and fell back on the pillow, listening. I was propelled down a roaring musical tunnel of sound and motion to sleep.