Water Lessons (36 page)

The kids cheered and laughed.

"Come join us, Jim!" one of the St. Brendan boys screamed.

"Yeah, just leave that wheel and come and hang out here," one of the Mount Zion boys shouted.

Jim shook his head and motioned "no" with his hand. He smiled, looking out at the waves that no longer seemed to scare him, and recalled Walter's spontaneous gift of the Dunhill.

His thoughts drifted toward the Boston brokerage. It would be tougher going this time around. He was not built for such work and, if he were honest with himself, he was even starting to dislike it. But he once rose to be the top broker at Henretty & Henretty. He could do it again. It could bring Maureen and him a great living.

But when would he write? Trading drained him of time and energy. And he always remained on standby with his cell phone. A good night's sleep and three meals a day were so rare, they were sacred.

He studied the wheel in his hands, its polished wooden handles pointing outward from the circular center like rays of the sun. What a truly meditative pursuit sailing is, he thought. It lacks the sheer adrenaline surge found in powerboat racing, or even power boating. But sailing suits those of my ilk.

Walter left the group at the bow and walked toward him. He pointed at Jim and winked, then veered across the deck and disappeared down the hatch. He reappeared several minutes later, emerging from the stairwell on Jim's side, with something in his hand.

"Here, Jimmy boy," Walter said, handing him his father's Dunhill. "Told you it was yours. I just cleaned it. Treat it well. Give it to your son one day. I've got mine here, the '51."

"My, thanks again. Now that's a gift." Jim took the pipe and placed in it a side pocket of his cargo shorts and buttoned it in.

Walter held another pipe in his hand. He sat down on one of the benches next to the wheel and withdrew a small plastic bag from his pocket. After pinching some tobacco from the bag, he packed the bowl. He returned the tobacco to his pocket and placed the pipe in his mouth. With one hand he cupped the bowl, with the other, despite the wind, he lit the tobacco.

"That was the hardest thing to learn, would ya believe it?" Walter said, raising his eyebrows. "Lighting one of those babies on deck."

"I can imagine," Jim said.

"I checked on Chief. He's fine-tuning something on the engine. And I visited with the kiddoes. They're just elated. They've never ventured this far out. They've all swam before, but no trips in rivers or lakes or the ocean. They're proud of ya at that wheel. They can't wait for their turns. I might make a Navy man out of one of 'em yet."

"Hey, Walt, think we may still get rain today?"

"I checked the radio again," Walter said. "And I checked the Net right before we left. Possible drizzle, fifty percent chance, for the evening. Not enough to postpone the trip. If the sky leaks a bit, son, it won't last long. We'll just put the kids below deck, have 'em play cards or something while I steer us along."

"Doesn't sound bad."

"We'll never be too far from shore anyway. And ya know, Jim, it rained a little during the Figawi, Sunday and late Saturday. Some boats dropped out."

"Apparently, you didn't," Jim said.

They both looked at each other and grinned.

"Wonder what Maureen's doin' right now," Jim said.

"Hopefully thinking of you."

"She saw me off today," Jim said. "I think she's emerging from her slump."

After a moment of silence, Walter raised a finger. "Let me see that wheel a second. Never mind, you steer it. Pull us east now, fully parallel with the shore, per that GPS. We're far enough out in the sound."

Jim turned the wheel steadily with both hands.

"Ah, good, son. You've come far. My latest pupil! Tell ya what, Jim. You go up to the bow and visit with the guys. Be my eyes on the ground. Do a little reconnaissance for me. Are they getting along up there? None of 'em better misbehave or mouth off to each other like last time."

Jim strode across the deck, past the booms and under the three great masts, which rose like massive pillars above him. "Hey hey hey, gentlemen!" His words carried an upbeat lilt.

"We saw a whale!" Lance cried.

"It was jumpin' over there in the distance!" Dwayne shouted, pointing starboard into the horizon.

"Wow… seriously?" Jim said.

"Yeah," Scott said. "Then it crashed into the water. It musta died of shock when it saw our big ship."

The laughing LaRon clapped Scott affectionately on the back. On their last trip, the two had not been exactly friendly with each other, nearly coming to blows. Now Scott buckled over with laughter.

"What great fun this is!" Reverend Ward said. "Right, Dwayne?"

"Yeah!" The diminutive boy screamed with delight.

Reverend Ward shot Jim an animated look of amusement and glee.

"This is the life!" Tim Murphy pumped his fists above his head. "And no burning buildings or five-alarm fires out here."

"You're home free from that." Jack looked back at Jim. A hint of weariness lingered about the eyes.

"How're you likin' this, Mr. Spaulding?" Jim said.

"Can't complain, really," Jack said, forcing a smile. "We've got great sunshine, strong winds. We've got the open seas and a legendary vessel."

Jim studied Jack's face. Natasha was at it again. Jack was finding it harder to conceal. At least Maureen wasn't the only one.

He glanced sternward at the lone figure gripping the wheel. If only he could one day achieve what the old man had. A happy, healthy relationship, success in one's career and hobbies, and nearing retirement with wealth. Where could these be won? On his current path?

The old man stared past Jim into the horizon, his expression hardy as a seawall.

CHAPTER FORTY

An hour had passed since they anchored in Chatham harbor. Reverend Ward, Tim, and Jack had taken the boys below deck for dinner when the rain came. Not an intense rain, but instead little more than a drizzle ensued, enough that the men shut all of the portholes anyway. Only Walter, Bill, Chief, and Jim remained above deck, clad in their raingear and seated under the wooden-roofed cockpit.

"We could've pressed on," Bill said. "We still got some good winds. Conceivably, you and I could've taken turns, Jim. One fella sleeping, the other steering. But it really isn't worth the risk. And sailing alone at night? You got some experience, but not
that
much. We were too close to Chatham to keep going. There isn't enough light to maneuver around those damned shoals. They can be treacherous."

"Agreed," Jim said.

"We better grab some chow, son," Walter said. "And catch some z's. All night in!"

Below deck, the boys were tucked into bed in their respective cabins. Walter motioned for Jim, Chief, and Bill to follow. He pointed to the galley, where they removed their raingear and piled it into the sink. Walter opened the pantry drawer and removed some bananas, cans of tuna and ziplocked bags of sandwiches. The four men stood in the galley in silence, wolfing down the food and downing bottled water. Sheets of rain pelting the deck overhead were the only sounds.

The old man pointed at Jim. "Get some good sleep, my boys. Rest your bones well. I'm waking you guys first."

They tiptoed down the hall. Bill and Chief entered their cabin. Near the end of the corridor, Walter pointed at the guest cabin. Jim entered and heard Walter shutting the captain's cabin door. Jim shut his own door, and removed his clothes and shoes. He tore back the blanket and shot under the covers.

Yet sleep did not come for nearly two hours. In the haunted corridors and chambers of his mind lurked the familiar demons and wraiths. A cascade of thoughts crashed against each other—thoughts of Maureen, his friends in Boston, his parents and brother, Liam and Father Ben and the townspeople he remembered in Exeter. Eventually, Jim drifted off to sleep.

Jim found himself lying on the hot roof, eating from a bag of sliced bread. He pulled slice after slice from the bag, feasting away while he watched the clouds above creep by. Jim suddenly realized a flood had risen around the house. Freddy lay feet away near the edge of the roof, pleading for help, but before Jim could reach him, the waters engulfed him.

Somehow Jim stood in St. Louis Cemetery Number One at twilight. He ran through the labyrinthine lanes and alleys, weaving between the temple-like burial crypts, many of them cracked and crumbling, in search of his friend's grave.

A familiar voice arose nearby, old and deep and gravelly. "Lookin' fa me, podnuh?"

His old friend stood about one hundred feet down the lane. With one arm, he held his guitar pointed to the ground, a look of grief on his face.

"Freddy? Freddy!" Jim screamed. "Where did you go?"

"I wanted to live, Jimmy. I didn't want to leave just yet. Almost none of us did. I wanted to live! You know I wanted to live…"

Jim's mouth opened. The tone of Freddy's response was among the saddest he had ever heard.

He sprinted toward the ghost. He was halfway there when it vanished. Jim wept feverishly as he continued toward the end of the lane. The twilight gave way, second by second, to pitch black.

Jim jolted awake. He lay in bed, wet with sweat, despite the cool air of the cabin. He must have been weeping aloud. Jim wiped his eyes and peered at the crack under the cabin door. The corridor light was on, and he recognized the outline of two feet. Seconds later, the feet were gone, the steps fading down the corridor.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

Morning commenced with a rap on the cabin door. Jim rubbed his eyes, slid out of bed, and turned the knob. Walter and Chief looked caffeinated and well rested.
 

"Rise 'n' shine, Jimmy!" Bill said.

"That's right!" Jim said. "We've gotta be up before the others. I'll meet y'all in the galley in five."

Jim dressed and walked to the galley. Walter was waiting.

"Hey, Jimmy, let's wake everyone. Have them all meet us here in ten minutes. You and I can grab some grub here later. You take cabin rooms one, two, and three. I'll wake up the rest."

Jim rapped on the three doors. Tim opened one. Reverend Ward and Jack opened the others.

"Mornin', gents," Jim said. "Walter and I will have a li'l breakfast prepared in the mess room. Let's all meet up there in ten."

Back in the mess room, Walter, Bill, Chief and Jim pulled out the table, set it, and arranged the chairs. Walter pointed Jim toward the galley counter, where cereal had been poured into bowls. The men grabbed some bananas and ate standing. Walter then greeted the remainder of the crew as they filed in.

"Hey there, sleepyheads! How's everyone feeling?" Walter said. "Take your seats. There's cereal and fruit and drinks for everybody. Dig in. Don't save a spot for us. We've eaten and we're going on deck. But we'll be back shortly."

Everyone complied, chattering and joking. Some boys recounted pranks from the night before. Some teased each other. But when the old man returned, the mess room fell absolutely silent.

"Good to see everyone in such high spirits," Walter said. "Hope you men enjoyed your first night on a ninety-four year old Herreshoff schooner!""

"It was awwwwesommme!" Dwayne said.

The adults chuckled.

"That's good, Dwayne!" Jim said. "Air was a little cooler than in our neck of the woods."

"Oh, yeah," Dwayne said.

"Shameful Seamus wouldn't stop with his singing," Lance said. "I almost wanted to get my eardrums removed."

"Now, lieutenants, please ensure you and the boys grabbed enough grub. Then throw away the plates and bowls and meet Jimmy and me here on the rear deck. We set sail in about thirty, forty-five minutes to points east."

Jim, Chief, and Bill followed the old man out of the room, into the galley, through the corridor, then up the stairwell. Scant rainclouds loomed in the morning sky, and generous sunshine and a strong westerly breeze greeted them.

Jim joined the other three men where they stood just before the bowsprit, and marveled at the scene before him. Chatham Harbor boasted a broad variety of seacraft, from power yachts to sailing yachts, from daysailers to yawls to schooners, from dinghies to ketches to sloops. Hinckley yachts that had probably drained their owners of millions of dollars, in both purchase and upkeep, rested at anchor and at their moorings. There were a few wooden sailing yachts, probably from the early and mid-twentieth century, but none came close to outshining the
John Paul Jones
.

People on the docks, about to board their own vessels, paused at length to gawk at the treasure in their midst, the wooden tern schooner's great beauty and rarity, her three majestic masts, her lengthy bowsprit, her figurehead depicting the great colonial hero, her wood-and-glass boxed cockpit, her vast network of rigging, the white painted hull with her name displayed in gilded gothic characters near the bow. A few of the more knowledgeable onlookers probably guessed the yacht to be a Herreshoff.

"Jim, do me a huge favor," the old man said. "Get Jack and you two go grab me a copy of
The Globe
in that chandler's shop over there. And some half-and-half for the coffee. Kathleen and I forgot to pack it. And a third thing—one bag of ice. Meanwhile, Bill and Chief and I'll get the crew in gear."

Walter pushed a twenty-dollar bill at him, but Jim waved it away. "My treat. Be right back."

He jogged toward the stairwell and shot down the steps. The sleepy-eyed Jack was emerging from the mess room. Back on deck, Jim and Jack lowered the dinghy, small motor included, into the water.

"After you, podnuh," Jim said.

Jack descended the small stern ladder and sat in the dinghy. Jim tossed down the cords to Jack, who held the ladder with one hand as he gathered the four cords into the boat. Down the ladder, Jim stepped into the boat and sat at the stern, one hand gripping the gunwale and the other grabbing the motor's pull cord. He yanked twice and the motor started.

Jack pushed off hard from the ladder and plopped onto the bench near the bow. The dinghy rotated until it faced away from the yacht. Jim turned the handle. The motor geared up, sending them slowly across the harbor toward the docks.