Billingsgate Shoal

by Rick Boyer

  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.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I AWOKE AT SIX A.M., hungry as a tiger. I emerged from my rabbit hole and poked my head out under the gizmo and looked around. It was bad.

  Now in most places in the world, an all-night rainstorm means that the morn will dawn bright, sparkly clear, with blue skies and sun. In most places, yes.

  In New England, an all-night rain means that Mother Nature is getting warmed up. She's doing her sitting-up exercises for the real bad stuff. The violent storm had given way to a thin drizzle. These spells of Heavenly Displeasure may last for two or three days. The sky is overcast, and changes from dark to less dark. What remains constant is the near-invisible rain of tiny threads of water droplets which, over an extended period of time, make everything damp: all your clothes, your socks especially, your skin, your carpets and bedsheets, curtains, and your spirits.

  I could hear the faint patter of the drizzle on the tarp that formed the gizmo. I was depressed. I wanted a big hot meal with lots and lots of coffee. I looked at the tiny alcohol stove in the cramped galley. I shook my head. The last thing I wanted to do in my hungry and depressed state was to sit kneeling down in front of a small stove—you have to kneel down in a catboat; there isn't enough up-and-down room to do anything e1se—and cook my breakfast. I'd have to pump up the stove and clean up everything afterward. No, I deserved better after what I'd been through the previous night. I deserved to sit in a booth and order heaps of everything. I returned to the cabin and got dressed. Almost as an afterthought, I took my dark glasses to help hide the black eye, which was hanging on like a summer cold. I peeked out from under the canvas again and wished it weren't so.

  The tide had receded, leaving a lo
t of muddy, dusky banks of purple mud and slime. The water was quiet. Even in the drizzle it reflected the dank earth and dull brick buildings of North Plymouth. It didn't even look like water. It looked like used motor oil. I heard a creak like an old rusty hinge. Birds. Two gulls were gliding over the slick, as if afraid to land on it. They glided motionless, wings steady, about two feet off the water, rasping and churring. They wheeled and pumped air with their long wings, settling on what looked like a giant cowpie in the middle of the still shine. Even the birds were depressed.

  "This is awful," I murmured. I sat down on one of the cockpit cushions, which I dredged up out of the lazaret. If you wanna see ugly, I'll show you ugly: North Plymouth in a slow morning drizzle at low tide. There was a tall smokestack across from me near Gray's Beach. It marked the commercial pier built by the Plymouth Cordage Company, which (I later discovered) used to make hempen ropes, twine, and that grisly stuff you see in lumber yards called sisal. Anyway, the Plymouth Cordage Company was doing about as well as the Acme Buggywhip Corporation, which was not very. The cordage company was in a state representative of many older New England industries: like a punk poker hand, it had folded.

  I heard a low growl off to my left, and saw a dragger bravely making its way through the muck out into the main channel. A bit later came the high whine of an outboard, and a skiff darted out from Duxbury Harbor and made a neat lazy crescent around past me and followed the dragger. The wake came at me in dark troughs on the shiny water.