by Chris Knopf
As of that moment, however, they hadn't found us. New London could be one or two hours away, depending on wind and currents. It was late at night, and the wind was beginning to pick up, not to abate until the outside edge of a hurricane blew by. It was now or never.
"Has Eddie peed tonight?" I asked Amanda.
She looked over at him.
"Have you? No. We were about to go when you showed
I took him to shore while Amanda prepared the boat for cast-off. Most of this involved securing moveable objects that could turn into missiles if things got rough, and closing the boat off to flying saltwater. It's not often Amanda got to literally batten down the hatches, a thought she found endlessly charming.
Soon after, I started the motor and went forward to raise the anchor. Amanda had the helm, and turned toward the channel as soon as we were free. I went back to the cockpit and gently whispered instructions to her as we threaded the narrow opening and motored into the Inner Harbor.
When we cleared the channel, Amanda relinquished the helm and I got to stand there feeling the glorious sensation of a good-sized sailboat moving under power over an open body of water. The chrome wheel cool in my hand, the breeze now officially wind, with the anemometer reading ten knots. The bow gently rose and dipped over the little waves building in the modest fetch of West Harbor. The sky at the eastern horizon was getting lighter. I checked the clock on my cell phone. Six in the morning.
Amanda sat on the helmsman's seat behind me, put both arms around my waist and hugged. I reached down with one hand to grip her forearm.
"I worried," she said.
"So did I."
"You take too many chances."
"You're probably right."
"Why this time?" she asked.
"Curiosity."
"About the girl? It's okay, you just have to tell me."
"It's not like that."
"It isn't? She's young and available. Worse for you, she's smart and in some kind of trouble. And she has curves in all the places I don't."
"I like your curves fine."
"You like me all around, otherwise you wouldn't keep knocking on my door and inviting me to sit next to you on your Adirondack chairs and look at the bay. But you never tell me you love me."
Before heading for the open water, I steered the boat across the harbor, then pulled back on the throttle as we approached the shoreline. I put the gearbox in neutral and gently disentangled from Amanda's embrace.
"I'm lousy at the conventions of intimate relationships," I told her.
"So am I. Maybe that's the bond."
"Maybe. I'm going to pick up the utility boat I swiped from the marina and bring it with us to New London. Then I'm going to use it to come back here for Anika. I have my reasons, but if you think it's because I want her instead of you, saying you're wrong won't change that. I'd rather you just trust me because you do."
She looked at me as if trying to read text off my face. Unspoken words of her own buzzed like a swarm of insects around her eyes.
"Can I know those reasons?" she asked.
"It's a hypothesis. I'd rather it cook a bit before setting it on the table."
"You're risking your life for a hypothesis?"
"Can you think of a better reason?"
"You're evading. I've seen this before. It's what you do when you're not sure you should be doing what you're doing," she said.
"If I knew what I was doing it wouldn't be a hypothesis. I'm one of your hypotheses, since you don't know what you're doing with me."
"I don't, but I'd rather keep doing it for now, though God knows why," she said. "Probably because I love your dog."
"He loves you back. Of course, he loves anyone who feeds him brie on tiny pieces of toast."
I gave her the helm and asked her to keep the boat more or less in the same position. Then I climbed down into the dinghy and motored over to where I'd left the marina boat. It was still there. I tied the dinghy's towline to the stern of the other boat, clambered aboard and started it up. Moments later I was towing the dinghy out to the Carpe Mariana, waiting where I'd left her, Amanda having decided not to ditch me quite yet.
The mounting winds and shifting currents, however, had made holding her position somewhat of a challenge. She threw me a line when I came alongside, which I used to rig the marina boat to a cleat at the stern of the Carpe Mariana.
We motored out into Fishers Island Sound where the true nature of the weather revealed itself. The wind out of the east was pushing twenty knots and the waves were a messy combination of wind-blown chop, swells blown in from the Atlantic and the riptides that frequently formed in an area west of Fishers called the Race. The net effect of all this was a rough ride and a very seasick Axel Fey.
"What should I do for him?" Amanda asked from below.
"Give him a bucket."
With the wind more to the east than north, and blowing adamantly, I knew we'd make better time under sail than with the engine. So I put the boat on auto helm and ran around the deck, getting things ready to raise the sails. I tumbled back into the cockpit and did just that. As soon as the reefed mainsail caught that angry easterly, we took off, and I killed the engine. A few minutes later, I had the big Genoa headsail out and we were skimming up, down and over the heightening seas, but moving at least two knots faster than we could manage under power, and without the noise and diesel smell of the engine.
The sun by now was up there somewhere behind the cloud cover, painting the seas a bloodless grey. There were few other boats in sight, and thus far, no giant ferries coming in or out of the port of New London. The other thing to watch for were submarines, a hazard unique to that particular harbor.
I let Amanda in on this when she brought out coffee and toast.
"That's what Mr. Berman, the retired radio guy, told me," she said. "I still find it hard to believe."
"Yup. They build 'em and fix 'em right here in Groton, across the river from New London."
"Maybe they'll lend us one. Make your return trip a little more discreet."
"Good idea. Why don't you call ahead."
The wind continued to build, edging up into the low twenties. I knew this without looking at the wind gauge, based on the whitecaps and herringbone pattern on the surface of the agitated water. The boat hardly seemed to notice as she cut through the swells and gracefully danced over the erratic chop. The repair to the steering cables held. I had no rational reason to think it wouldn't, but time would have to pass before echoes of that trauma would be purged.
I checked on the two little boats in tow, bobbing and weaving in the sailboat's wake. In looking back, the receding contours of Fishers Island gave my heart an involuntary lift. To be gone for good. Another thing to long for.
"I want to go to France," said Amanda, reading my mind. "Or Italy. Live in a hotel and read books for a few months. I'd go alone, but I'd rather you come with me. I'm embarrassed to say I like your company."
"Okay."
"Just like that?"
"I've optimized petrochemical plants in both those places. I'll give you a tour."
I switched on the auto helm, let go of the wheel and relaxed back into Amanda. She wrapped her arms around my chest. "For that to happen, you have to come back from Fishers, with or without the curvaceous Anika."
"Okay."
"Splendid."
My plan was to grab a mooring in the field just inside the mouth of the Thames River. Instead, I grabbed two, doubling the chances Burton's sailboat would survive the coming blow. It took a while to rig the lines in a way I hoped would evenly spread the loads on both cleats and moorings. I brought the marina boat up to the transom and tied it off hard against the swim ladder, then separated it from the dinghy, which I tied to an aft cleat. I had to wake up Axel, who took the news with some shock and alarm.
"I can't move my arms or legs," he said. "My face stings. I can't go anywhere. Let me stay here. I'll keep it clean."
Not too long after, I had Amanda
, Axel and Eddie in the marina boat with some luggage, a few bottles of water and a bag of dog biscuits. Eddie ran to the bow and sniffed the complicated air blowing down the river from New London and Groton. Axel clutched his backpack to his chest and radiated fragility. On the way into the harbor I made a few phone calls.
I brought them to a dock just south of the ferry landing. After some awkward pitching about, we were off the boat with all the travel gear. Amanda took Eddie's leash and Axel lay down on the dock, using his backpack as a pillow.
"Joe Sullivan will pick you up at Orient Point and take you to Burton's. Burton will provide the usual protections," I told Amanda. "Please don't argue with me about that. I'll be safer if I know you and Eddie are safe."
"Is it too much to ask that this be the last time you stow me at Burton's as a safety precaution?" she asked.
"No. It's not too much."
"What about Axel?"
"Stow him there, too, if he's willing. If not, the hell with him."
"I'm willing," said Axel from his supine spot on the dock.
Amanda picked up her bag and cinched her grip on Eddie's leash. I kissed her and was about to tell her that I loved her when she walked away, down the dock on her way to the ferry, towed along by the eager mutt.
Axel reluctantly followed, his battered sneakers barely clearing the wooden slats.
(
I
The sun was still climbing in the sky, but it was getting darker, the cloud cover turning a blacker shade of grey. The wind blew in noisy bursts, the air unnaturally warm and heavy with the promise of rain. I got back in the marina boat and headed for the mooring field.
On the sailboat, I took a shower, then replaced my backpack with the waterproof ditch bag, which could also be configured to wear on my back, adding and replacing several items, including a selection of tools and gear from the amply stocked tool kit and spare parts bins supplied with the boat. I wrapped the shotgun in a towel covered by a large garbage bag, and used duct tape to make a tight cylinder. Before leaving, I secured the Carpe Mariana against the impending storm, stripping off the sails and dodger, and tying down anything that might blow away. It wasn't easy work, especially as the effects of the night before started catching up to me.
My last act aboard was to radio the New London harbormaster to let him know an unattended boat was going to ride out the weather in his waters.
The marina boat was designed and rigged in a fashion opposite to the one I most needed at that moment. Its shallow keel, squared-off bow, low freeboard, open helm and large motor were all intended to aid in pushing and pulling much bigger boats, and for easy on-and-off around a busy dock. Not for striking out across windswept seas, where I needed a deep keel, sharp bow, lots of room between the deck and waves, and a cozy watertight cabin. But that was the way it was.
Recognizing the real possibility that the boat could flip over, I brought along a safety harness with a life jacket built in, and a quick-release tether I could use to clip myself to the helm. I tied the ditch bag to the front of the helm, clipped the handheld radio to my belt and put my cell, now in a Ziploc bag, in the inside, zippered pocket of the jacket.
As I cruised down and out the mouth of the Thames, I was fooled into thinking I'd over-prepared. But as soon as I met open water, all such illusions were washed away as I plunged into a set of real waves. They were steep and poorly organized, foamy at the top and stacked up on each other, so I barely hit the trough before I was climbing the other side.
The first important task was to find the right amount of throttle. I needed enough power to make steady headway, but not so much that I'd fly off the crest of a wave, lose steerage and consequently all control at a critical moment. The Carpe Mariana, with her deep V of a hull and heavy displacement, would slice through the waves like a cleaver, where the marina boat skimmed across the surface, sliding up the slope, then slapping down the other side, only to be flung suddenly to the left, and then to the right, before scaling the next watery cliff.
I'd never ridden a mechanical bull, but I couldn't help thinking, this has to be a lot like that.
The safety harness and tether turned out to be more essential than precautionary. On a dozen occasions, I felt my feet rise off the sole of the boat, my grip on the wheel both savior and hazard as the jerks and jolts threatened to broach the valiant little craft.
I almost convinced myself that I had control of the helm when water off the blunt forward edge started to spray into my face, blinding me and filling the bottom of the boat to an alarming degree, until I realized the water weight provided some much needed ballast, reducing bounce and the jittery swings that had thus far dominated the trip. I just reminded myself not to allow too much of a good thing to come in over the bow.
Rather than head back into West Harbor, I struck a course toward the ferry channel that penetrated the far end of the island. This meant a greater exposure to the uniquely treacherous vagaries of the Race, but that was unavoidable. There was no percentage in hugging the shore, especially now that it was in the lee of the storm, and as always cluttered with rocky shoals and other hidden menace.
The marina boat was no happier with her worsening circumstances, forcing me to slow down another few knots, both to ward off capsizing and reduce the amount of seawater slopping around my feet. Though not soon enough. It wasn't unusual in the Race to have a pair of swells temporarily pile up on each other, amplifying the effects. One of these unholy joinings must have formed right as my attention was on the helm, tossing the starboard corner of the bow up in the air and throwing me backwards into the boat, my hands ripped from the wheel.
There wasn't much point in calling a wave a motherfucker, but I did anyway, the last words I got out before getting the wind knocked out of me, the tether fully extended and just long enough to allow me to land flat on my back. The boat pitched forward and I rolled into the port side and watched the foamy green water stream by, inches from my face, and for a few intriguing moments, I was sure we were going over. I gripped the lanyard that freed the tether from my harness, and was about to pull when the boat ripped off in the other direction. The wheel spun at the command of the boiling seas.
Instead of pulling the lanyard, I grabbed the tether and used it to yank myself back on my feet, took hold of the wheel and tried to regain my bearings. A bleak grey image of Race Rock Light, the old lighthouse that stood a mile off the Fishers' western coast, was on my port side, so I spun the wheel to the left and stole a glance at the landmass before giving the churning waves my respectful attention.
I knew the seas were more than the wind should warrant, running ahead of the storm as they did with a hurricane moving up the Atlantic. But that would soon change, as the wind caught up and the waves, inhaling the enraged force, fulfilled their gorged potential.
A hurricane isn't weather, it's a thing. A monster that invades, ravishes, then moves along. It doesn't care what it does to you, nor to itself, as it dies in soggy exhaustion deep in the mainland, or frozen to death in the North Atlantic. All it knows how to do is feast on warm water, curl into itself like a cobra, gather speed and strength to better lay waste all within its swirl. It's a hungry thing, an indiscriminate beast, blind and relentless and ultimately doomed, but impossible to ignore, foolish to deny.
I had to get to that channel.
Among the many illusions that afflict sailors is the idea that somewhere nearby the water is much calmer than the unfettered snot you're currently embroiled in. This is borne of both a trick in visual perspective and profound wishful thinking. Knowing both these things well, I still angled in closer to shore, thinking this was a cagey way to outsmart the elements.
What I got instead was a greater battering, the wave action predictably stronger the closer you got to the shallower water along the coast. I cursed at myself this time and angled back out. I dug my feet into the soggy bottom of the boat, took a better grip on the wheel and drove on through the muck.
If you stay alive, all tor
ture ends eventually, and such was the case with that race across Fishers Island Sound. Seemingly out of nowhere the opening of the ferry channel appeared, signaled by the red and green markers. As the breakwaters to either side quelled the waves, I torqued up the throttle and shot through the hole.
I cursed aloud again, though this time less a complaint than a celebration.
Though calmer than the seas, the channel was far from placid. The trick now was to make it all the way inside without bashing into the breakwaters, or farther down the channel, the tall dock walls. The water ballast, unintentional though it was, worked to great advantage in keeping the boat low in the water, allowing me to keep the throttle up without losing steerage.
Inside the channel, the water opened up into a harbor just big enough to allow the ferry to turn around and dock. On the other bank were a few houses, with their own docks. I pulled up to the first one and tied off the boat. Finally at rest, I could feel the true wind, blowing in from the northeast, auguring no good.
I stowed my iridescent yellow foulie in the ditch bag and replaced it with a dark blue, semi-waterproof rain jacket. I used a set of bungee cords to fix the shotgun to the ditch bag, which I put on my back, and walked around the harbor to the ferry office. It was closed, according to the sign on the wall, not to reopen until after the storm.
I walked up the small hill to the Fishers Island state police barracks and went inside. No one was there. I went around the desk for a quick check of the holding cell. Ashton Kinuie was lying down on the cot inside the cell, apparently asleep.
"Don't you ever answer your phone?" I asked.
