P o r t
S t a r b i r d
A Storm Ketchum Adventure
A Novel
by
Garrett Dennis
Copyright © 2014 by Garrett Dennis. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this text may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. The Kinnakeet Boatyard, HatterasMann Realty, the Sea Dog Scuba Center, Tibbleson Construction, Hurricane Ernesto, and all named modern-day characters and events are fictitious. Other businesses and organizations, locales, scientific references, and historical figures and events are real, but are used fictitiously.
PORT STARBIRD
Storm Ketchum Adventure #1
ISBN 978-0-615-97938-0
TBD, Binghamton NY
Cover by Vila Design (http://www.viladesign.net/).
Contents
1. He was an old man who fished alone in a canal, and he'd gone almost his entire life without taking a fish.
2. But real men are not built for defeat.
3. Make them think you're more man than you are, and you might be so.
4. Everyone takes a beating now and then, one way or another.
5. A man shouldn't be alone in his old age if it can be avoided.
6. He'd sung at night when he steered alone back in the old days.
7. There's seldom a happy ending when people fall in love.
8. It's good to be lucky, but better to be prepared and ready when the luck comes.
9. Each time was new, and he didn't think about the past.
10. Now it was time to think of the one thing for which he was born.
11. He sailed on, with hope and confidence freshening like a rising breeze.
12. He was awake awhile before he recalled that his heart was broken.
13. He wished he could see him once more, to know what he had against him.
14. Forgoing unnecessary chatter while at sea was considered a virtue.
15. When we start living outside ourselves is when it gets dangerous.
16. The shortest answer is simply doing the thing.
17. The best way to learn whether you can trust someone is to trust her.
18. Anyone can behave poorly if given the chance.
19. The weather in the hurricane months is the finest of the year, when there are no hurricanes.
20. He'd asked too much and loved too much, and he'd worn it all out.
About the Author
To my wife, my biggest fan and promoter.
1. He was an old man who fished alone in a canal, and he'd gone almost his entire life without taking a fish.
Almost, because he wasn't dead yet, though that was probably due more to plain stubbornness than to healthy living. And he wasn't really such an old man; the graying hair, though short, and close-cropped salt-and-pepper beard made him look older than he actually was. But he was in tolerable shape and the beard, the gnarled walking stick, and his sun-faded attire combined to create an oddly distinguished effect in a washed-out, island sort of way - perhaps on the order of the Cuban Hemingway (whom he admired), with maybe a dash of grizzled Crocodile Dundee given the wide-brimmed tarp hat he generally favored on bright warm days at sea; though he was considering losing the beard now that it was June.
And he didn't fish; he was no Santiago. But he was in fact standing on a canal bulkhead. The dog was the one interested in the fish, which was why they'd paused here. When he was a child back North, he and some friends had occasionally tried to fish at a pond, using earthworms if they could find some and assorted kitchen scraps if they couldn't, but it didn't take. There was too much waiting and too much work and not enough of a return to justify the effort. It tasted better to him when it came ready-to-cook from the local seafood market, or better yet already cooked by someone else. Though he anachronistically happened to be living near a renowned fishing mecca, the sporting aspect of it didn't enter into the equation for him, as fishing didn't qualify as a sport to him.
But it did to most of the Captain's charters and the Captain needed a first mate, so Ketch and the dog continued on to the boatyard. It was a short walk from where they lived and the dog, accustomed to the route, was unleashed as usual but obedient as usual and didn't stray too far. It was safe here on the quiet soundside back streets, far enough away from the summer traffic on Route 12; and it was a Monday, not a turnover day for the weekly vacation rentals.
The town of Avon's Kinnakeet Boatyard wasn't really a boatyard anymore, since nothing got built or repaired there, nor was it a true marina. It had rather become more like a floating trailer park, an eclectic collection of structures that largely served as an economical refuge for transient seasonal workers, itinerant wind worshipers, and ersatz hippies. A handful of smaller commercial vessels berthed there out of convenience or frugality, but they were outnumbered by houseboats in various states of disrepair, some mobile and some not. There were also three weather-beaten cabins not much bigger than gardening sheds, and sometimes a camping tent or two or three, dotting the shoreline, plus lately a wheel-less laundry truck resting on cinderblocks, with an attached cable siphoning electricity from a nearby utility pole. And there was a small treehouse, which currently appeared to be uninhabited.
Ketch wondered where these people would end up when they all got evicted, which could happen by the end of the summer. He knew where he himself would be going, or thought he did; the logistics of it all were still a bit hazy, but he'd work them out eventually. The devil is indeed in the details - twenty-five of which, at close to a hundred pounds each and with all the associated hardware, had arrived on Saturday and were now stacked behind his house.
He paused for a moment to visually survey the boatyard when he and the dog rounded the bend and it came into view. Despite his relatively advanced age compared to most of the free-spirited residents, he felt an illicit affinity with this place - the boats gently bobbing on the sound in the early morning light, the why-don't-we-get-drunk-and-screw spirit that prevailed, the whole salty bohemian scene. If he ended up having to leave his house before the boatyard was cleared out, he guessed he might try to crash here for a while if he could.
The 'Kinnakeet' part of the boatyard's moniker was an old Original American, or perhaps Indigenous American, name. Ketch preferred these terms over the misnomer 'Indian', which had arisen simply because Columbus hadn't known where he was going, and over the insufficiently specific 'Native American' - everyone who was ever born in the Americas was technically a native American, it seemed to him. Avon was located on Hatteras Island, one of a series of narrow barrier islands along the Atlantic coast that comprised North Carolina's Outer Banks region, and the town itself had originally been called Kinnakeet.
He wished it still was. For reasons that continue to remain largely obscure, when postal service was established on Hatteras Island in the late eighteen hundreds, the government decided to rename most of the island's settlements, and Kinnakeet became Avon. North of Avon there was Salvo, once called Clarks; during the Civil War a passing Union ship had spotted the settlement, which was unmarked on its map, fired a salvo of cannonballs at it which missed their target, and marked 'Salvo' on their map. That one made a modicum of sense. But north of Salvo was Chicamacomico, which inexplicably became Rodanthe; and similarly south of Avon, Cape became Buxton, Trent became Frisco, and Hatteras somehow retained its name - all for no good reason that he knew of. The village of Waves, a relative newcomer, was originally South Rodanthe.
There was some fascinatingly quirky history to be had around these parts, to be sure, and th
e island was still quirky today in many small and delightful ways. Ketch liked quirky, especially if he could find it by the sea. At one time he'd favored Key West, which was arguably the King of Quirky - but in recent years that island had devolved into largely just another cruise stop, as far as he was concerned.
People and events still generally tended to move more slowly here and Hatteras Island, in addition to its unique background and a modern persona that still often enough leaned pleasantly toward quaint, to his mind projected an aura of tranquility and a sense of sanctuary, especially here in Avon. He'd come to realize that he valued this more than anything else, and in fact had pretty much required it after the breakdown (if that's what it had been), now that he thought back on it; and that was what had finally lured him here for good.
But all good things must end someday; or so he'd heard it said and sung.
The Captain interrupted his preparations for the morning's charter when he spotted Ketch and the dog approaching the dock. "Hey, lookee, there's a Storm a-comin'!" the old mariner bellowed.
A boy and girl configuring a kiteboard near one of the shore cabins anxiously glanced up at the sky. Maybe later they'd trek on down to Canadian Hole, a premier location for wind sports in Pamlico Sound just south of town between Avon and Buxton; or maybe not if the Captain had spooked them, Ketch thought. But then he realized that wind zealots like those two probably knew a lot more about the weather than most people did.
A disheveled, golden-skinned young man with a mop of unruly black hair emerged from the cabin of a docked trawler that had plainly seen better days. He stretched, yawned, and smiled. "Jeez, Don, you know what time it is?" he softly inquired in the Captain's direction. He silently waved to Ketch, and Ketch waved back.
Was Mario living on his boat now? Maybe he couldn't handle rent at the moment beyond the cost of his boatyard berth, which owning the boat obligated him for. Ketch knew there were precious few conventional rentals that were affordable to locals like Mario in this town, especially during tourist season. He also knew the boat was an inheritance. He wondered why Mario didn't just sell it, and if maybe he should stop back by with a twelve-pack and a pizza later.
Mario didn't often fish, and never chartered. He took on odd jobs around town, a little of this and a little of that, everything aboveboard to the casual observer. But obviously not always, on closer inspection - for one thing, Ketch knew he could invariably produce some primo square grouper when called upon, not just your backyard variety. So, there was one possible reason for him keeping the boat. But Mario was always cheerful, and was generous with what little he had. Ketch knew he'd give you the shirt off his back if you really needed it; though he might have stolen it.
Ketch redirected his attention to the Captain when he'd gotten close enough to avoid raising his voice. "You know I hate that name," he mock-grumbled.
"Well, good mornin' to y'all too!" the Captain thundered back at him with a big grin. Ketch tipped his hat with a grudging hint of a smile in return. What else could one do? The old salt may be irrepressible, but he was a good man, and possibly the last best friend Ketch would ever have.
"That's better!" the Captain said. "How's my Jacky-boy doin' today? That ole son-of-a-gun takin' good care a you?" The dog wagged enthusiastically. "Okay, so what are y'all loungin' around for? Come on aboard and make yourself useful, my back's barkin' already!"
The Captain and his My Minnow were both semi-retired. Though somewhat elderly, the boat was meticulously maintained - not unlike the Captain himself, who was not only a fan of the old Gilligan's Island TV series but also coincidentally resembled the husky, genial, garrulous Skipper of the original Minnow, down to the stereotypical cap he wore for the tourists; though he was somewhat fitter and trimmer than that actor had been. Others generally called him by his name, but Ketch just called him 'Captain'.
Ketch stepped onto the warped and decomposing planks of the dock and carefully made his way to the Captain's slip, the dog following eagerly. "First things first, boy, you know the drill," he said as he removed the dog's life jacket from his canvas backpack and fastened it around the dog. The dog waited patiently for Ketch to board and set up the ramp, then trotted onto the deck of the boat.
It felt good to be back on the boat again, after three weeks away. Ketch still didn't know as much about boats as he'd like, having always admired them but mostly from a distance until recent years, but he was learning. He knew the Minnow was a thirty-five-foot Bertram flybridge with twin inboards, which provided plenty of oceangoing horsepower; and he knew it had less than a three-foot draft, which was important because the sound could sometimes be that shallow in places.
Pamlico Sound, the estuarine buffer between the island and the mainland, was almost eighty miles long and thirty miles across at its widest point; but Ketch knew its depth seldom exceeded fifteen feet, and there were numerous shoals throughout that anything other than a flat-bottomed skiff could run aground on. There were navigable paths through the maze for boats with deeper drafts, but they sometimes weren't very wide and often weren't marked as well as they could be. The Captain's inboards were advantageous at sea, but despite the improved maneuverability they provided, they were still a net liability in the sound; outboards that could be lifted to cross a shoal without damaging props and rudders were more practical. But both Ketch and the Captain were familiar with their habitual routes, and it was a good boat.
Ketch also knew it would take some additional dredging and filling to convert this boatyard into a serious marina for the playthings of the privileged few, and probably some more dredging in the sound itself. Good news for the silver spooners, since one thing this town lacked was a real marina; bad news for the crabs, mollusks, terrapins, and juvenile fish and shrimp that needed the adjacent marshes to survive.
"So how are you, and how was your trip?" Ketch asked.
"How am I? The usual, another day older'n closer to death," the Captain grunted. "It was good to see everybody again and all that, a lotta yakkin' and so on. I'd rather've stayed right here, truth be told. Gotta do the family thing now'n again, though."
"I hear you."
"Say, you'd best stow that stick a yours inside so's it don't get to rollin' around like that one time," the Captain reminded Ketch. "How come you're carryin' that dang thing all over now anyways? Don't look like you really need it."
"Well... I like the way it looks, like it just fell out of a tree, and I like the way it feels in my hand. And it has a built-in compass in case I get lost, and a whistle in case someone tries to mug me, and it's handy when the footing is treacherous, like on that wretched dock. Why don't you tie up down at Hatteras like the other charters? You live there, after all. You could run aground up here one of these days."
The Captain chuckled and continued with his work. "Muggin', right. When's the last time you heard a somebody gettin' mugged around here? Anyways, my condo ain't waterfront, and it's cheaper here even with drivin' the boat and the truck back'n forth, you know that, and I know my way around. I don't have no money tree like some folks, though I guess I'll be bitin' the bullet soon enough. Speakin' of, you hear any more from that developer?"
"Ingram? Yes," Ketch answered as he pitched in and helped set up the gear. Today's outing would be a half-day inshore and nearshore charter, in and around the sound and Hatteras Inlet for a vacationing family group, nothing fancy. They likely wouldn't be catching anything extraordinary - the game fish Hatteras Island was famous for, like marlin, sailfish, tuna, dolphin, king mackerel, grouper, snapper, and wahoo, were generally found farther offshore than they'd be going today - but these folks were bound to make out better than they would on a head boat. They'd certainly get more personalized attention with this particular captain, Ketch knew from experience. These days a low-key charter like this now and then provided enough supplemental income for the Captain and enough adventure for Ketch, who wasn't motivated to work full-time at this occupation and was neither qualified nor inclined to mate on the big-game
offshore charters anyway.
"He sent me another 'final offer' in the mail," Ketch elaborated, neglecting to specify just how final it really was. "It said I should respond immediately."
"Hey, let's use some a the bigger rigs today, I'm feelin' lucky," the Captain directed. "Another offer, you say? When was that?"
"A couple of weeks ago, right after you left for your vacation."
"Well, what'd you tell 'em?"
Ketch shrugged and kept working. The Captain turned toward him and grabbed a rag to wipe his hands. "Maybe y'all ought to take it this time. It's gonna happen, you know, no matter what them tree-huggers do, now he's done with his legal troubles. Y'all don't wanna end up livin' smack in the middle a his mess, right?"
"Oh, I know it's going to happen." Ketch shook his head. "But what he's offering is still less than what I could get for it on my own. Or could have, before all this damned foolishness. Also it's just what they decided is fair market value for the house, no moving expenses or anything." He snorted disgustedly. "Besides, I'm settled there now, and it's my home. I don't want to move, and I shouldn't have to just so some damn rich cracker can line his pockets some more and play king of the damn hill."
"Well, at least he ain't a damn yankee. Oh, sorry, forgot you was a yankee," the Captain jibed.
"Forgot you was a cracker," Ketch replied despite his agitation, completing his part of their standing joke.
"Anyhow, I hear most everybody's agreed to sell. I heard that fella with the horses finally give up."
"I don't care, and I don't care how much money he offers." Ketch scowled. "It just isn't right. And you should see the way that cocky bastard talks down to people."
"You talked with him direct?"
"No, but I have letters."
"Well, that might just be legalese, you know. God knows that's enough to piss off most folks, tryin' to read that crap."
Port Starbird (Storm Ketchum Adventures) Page 1
