by M. D. Lee
At the two hour mark, I give up. I’ve been staring at the boat all afternoon, and I’m starting to wonder if the boat is even used very much. It might not even be worth waiting around here tomorrow. Maybe Sara’s had better luck. It’s time to head home now anyway.
When I walk through the door of our house I see my dad’s home from work. He’s in the living room reading his paper.
He calls out from behind the paper, “Fisher, is that you?”
“Yeah, Dad,” I answer.
“You have a telephone message from Mr. Plankinton. He’d like you to call him back. That’s a long distance number which is not cheap, so make it fast.”
On the counter just below the phone is a note with his phone number taped to the kitchen counter. I peel off the note and dial the number.
After only three rings, Mr. P. answers. “Hello, Fisher. Thank you for calling me back,” says the voice on the other end. “I’m afraid I have some bad news. I’m going to have to cancel our sailing trip next week. There’s been some business down here at the office I can’t get out of. Me and the Misses will be stuck here in the city for a few more weeks, I’m afraid. When we get back up to Trent Harbor you and I can sit down and discuss another time for our trip.”
After a little more small talk with Mr. P about the weather and his boat, I hang up. Drat. I was really looking forward to that trip. It would’ve been cool to show Sara Hunter’s Island and where I hid last summer. Hopefully we can figure out another time he can do it. I’m unconsciously looking at the phone on the wall when an idea hits me like smacking a baseball into the outfield.
“Geez, I’ve got it!” I pick up the phone and immediately dial Sara’s house.
When Sara answers the phone, she says in a glum tone, “Hi, Fisher. I didn’t have much luck with my dad’s friend. My dad thinks he sold the boat last summer. But my dad—”
I cut her off. “It doesn’t matter! I know how we’re going to get out to Damariscove Island.” I look at my dad to make sure he’s still in the living room reading his paper.
In a hushed voice I say, “I can’t tell you about it over the phone. We’ll talk later.”
Chapter 7
Who’s She
“Oh, Fisher. I don’t know if it’s a good idea just to take Mr. Plankinton’s sailboat,” Sara says. “We could get in a lot of trouble.”
“We’ll be fine,” I say trying to reassure her.
“Sometimes I really think I need to find another boyfriend.”
I can’t tell if she’s joking or if she’s serious.
With her head in her hands, she says, “These weird situations always seem to find you. I can’t think of anyone else who’s actually seen a dead body being loaded into the trunk of a car. That just doesn’t happen to people. And then there’s the monkeys. You actually found monkeys living in Maine who talked to us with sign language.” She stands up and looks at me. “And now you want me to lie to my parents. I’ll stand up to a lot of thing, you know that, but lying to my parents?”
“We’re not lying,” I say grabbing her hand. “We’re just not telling them everything. Your dad already gave you permission to go on this sailing trip, they just don’t have to know Mr. P. won’t be with us.”
“But that’s why he gave me permission—because he knows Mr. Plankinton and trusts him. And he thinks we’re going to Hunter’s Island not Damariscove.”
“Fine. Just tell him we’ve changed plans and we’re now going to Damariscove Island. That way it won’t be a lie…much…and he’ll know where you are.”
She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath then let’s it out slowly, and says, “I should have my head examined. For the sake of history, I’m in.” With a weak smile, she adds, “What could go wrong?”
*
Less than a week later it couldn’t be a better day for a sailing trip. Today’s the day we leave, and there’s a nice breeze coming from the south that’ll push us straight toward Damariscove Island. The sun is bright and according to the weather report, it’s supposed to stay that way for a while. But of course, on the Maine coast there’s nothing certain about the weather.
I’ve been getting the boat ready for our little trip. I’ve made sure all the lines and rope are in good shape, I’ve checked over the sails for wear, and I’ve inspected the rest of the sailboat as best I could. It’s a solid little boat, and it’ll easily get us there and back safely.
Sara’s job in getting us ready was to provision the boat with food. It doesn’t sound all that important, but knowing how much food and water to take with us isn’t easy. You don’t want to end up with too many cans of Rav-O’s because at the end of the trip you’ll get sick if you have to take another bite. She’s also loaded us up with a big jar of Skippy and some grape jelly, so with bread you can make that into breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
I look at my watch. The sailboat doesn’t have a motor, so we need to leave the dock within the hour if we want an easy ride out on the ebb-tide. Hopefully Sara will be here soon.
“Fisher!” I look up and see Sara coming down the path toward the dock. She gives me a slight wave. But suddenly I notice she’s not alone. What’s going on? It’s another girl who looks to be about Sara’s age with red hair to her shoulders. She’s wearing a gray hooded sweat shirt, jeans, and I suddenly notice she’s also carrying a small duffel bag.
I stand up on the deck of the boat, arms crossed tightly across my chest. As they approach the boat, I say, “Sara?”
“Hey, Fisher. This is my cousin Josephine.” Then Sara adds, “And she’ll be coming with us.”
“Whoa! Wait a minute. When did all this happen? You knew we were leaving today.”
“I told you she was coming for a visit this summer. I just didn’t know she was coming this soon. It was supposed to be a surprise. She’s from—”
“I can speak for myself,” Josephine interrupts. “Y’all act like I’m not even standing here.”
“Sorry,” Sara says looking down at her feet.
“I’m from North Carolina; the Outer Banks. Which is kinda funny because my name is Jo Banks.” She smiles at me.
“Outer Banks?” I say. “I don’t get it.”
“It’s a place, you chuckle-head. The Outer Banks. It’s a long strip of beach that sticks out into the Atlantic.”
“Okay,” I say still not really sure what she’s talking about.
“Don’t they teach you Yankees anything about geography?”
“Fisher, I know it’s a small boat, but there’s plenty of room,” Sara says as she tosses her duffel bag into the cockpit. “Besides, with another person it’ll be easier to look for the treasure.”
“So you told her about the treasure? Sara!”
Sara acts like she doesn’t hear me, and grabs Josephine duffel bag and tosses it next to hers. “Yes, I told her. And she’s coming with us, and that’s that.” Both of the girls climb on board.
I put both hands behind my head, turn around and breathe a deep sigh as I watch the puffy white clouds float past.
Sara adds, “The longer we sit here and talk about this, we’ll miss the ebbing tide.”
“But she doesn’t even know anything about boats,” I say looking at Josephine, but she gives me a sarcastic grin in return.
“She knows more about boats than you do, Fisher Shoemaker. Now let’s untie the boat and get going.”
I look at my watch again. Time’s running out and clearly Sara’s made up her mind about Josephine coming along. The one thing I’ve learned about Sara is once her mind’s made that’s it, nothing’s going to change it. I don’t have to like it, though.
“Let’s get going,” I grumble. Pointing to the dock-lines tied to the cleat on the dock. “Josephine, can you untie us? We can put the sails up while we ride the tide out.”
“Aye-aye, captain boy.” And she gives me a mocking salute.
I snap a look at Sara, but she just shrugs her shoulders.
Soon we’re out in open water, and the bo
at heels over nicely in the breeze moving through the water like a horse galloping across a green field. I look up at the sails, and they seem to be full and trimmed properly. In this part of the bay I have to keep my eyes on the water because there are endless lobster pots that appear right in front of us. It’s simple steering out of the way, but if I wasn’t paying attention just for a second, we might run over one with the rudder then it’d be a huge mess.
Sara’s been down below studying the chart making sure we’re on course. She calls up from below, “If I figured everything correctly, at this rate we should get to Damariscove Island by late afternoon.”
Josephine, who’s been sitting in the cockpit with me and hasn’t said a word since we left, looks at me and says, “So you think you’re going to find buried pirates treasure.” She smirks and looks back out at the blue water.
“Laugh if you want, but you’re not getting any of it.”
“I’m not worried,” she says. “I’m pretty sure y’all are not gonna find a dang thing. No one ever does.”
“So you’re a boat expert and a pirate expert.” I shake my head not wanting to look at her. What was Sara thinking bringing her along?
“Yeah. I know a little something about pirates. You ever hear of Edward Teach?”
I shake my head no.
“Figures. You Yankees only know him by his other name, Blackbeard.
I sit up straight. “Go on.”
“He used to sail the waters near where we live. Everyone knows all the stories, but no one’s ever found any treasure. Y’all are just wasting your time. But it’s a heck of a nice day for a sail.”
“Where do you live?” There’s a lobster pot just off our bow, so I steer just to starboard of it.
“Weren’t you listening? Outer Banks.” She shakes her head at me. “We live in a little town on the very end of the Outer Banks called Hatteras. That’s where my dad keeps his charter boat.”
Sara has now joined us up in the cockpit. “Her dad runs fishing charters off his boat. In the summer when she’s not in school, Jo usually helps out.”
“So Blackbeard used to sail around there? That’s so cool.”
“No. It’s not cool,” Josephine says. “Pirates were nothing but a bunch of drunken cowards who slaughtered innocent people, including children, and stole their money. So when people walk around going ‘Arhh, Scurvy dog,’ I want to punch ’em in the face. That’s like saying the Nazi’s we a fun bunch of guys.”
I glance at Sara and she gives me a look back. Changing the subject, I ask, “So if you help your dad on the charter boat in the summer, what are you doing here?”
Sara answers instead, “Jo’s just up here visiting for a few weeks. Our parents thought it’d be a good idea if we spent some time together.”
“I can answer for myself,” Josephine says looking down at her hands. She’s silent for a moment while she thinks. “The truth is, my dad’s in a little bit of a money struggle.” Almost in a whisper she says, “We might lose the boat and the house. Dad and Mom thought it might be easier to work through the problem if I were here visiting Sara.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say to that.
Sara leans over and gives Josephine a hug. “It’ll be okay. Your dad’ll figure something out. He always does.”
“So what happened?” I ask. “How come your dad’s having problems? Is no one fishing anymore?”
“It’s not really any of your business,” Josephine snaps. “But I’ll tell you anyway. When those greedy dogs of OAPEC raised the price of gasoline, the price at the pump skyrocketed to $0.88 a gallon. And at the marina where my dad fills up the boat, it’s almost $1.45! Can you believe that? $1.45 just for a gallon of gas. Our boat usually takes on about 250 gallons of fuel, so he had to raise his prices for a day of fishing charters just to make a little money. It’s not going well.”
Josephine stands up in the heeling boat as we rock through the waves. I notice that even as the boat bounces off each wave, she doesn’t seem to have any problem standing. Most people who don’t normally go out in boats would have been thrown to the deck by now. She looks out at the water, and then climbs down the ladder into the cabin.
Sara moves over near me with our shoulders touching. “She’s having a tough time with her dad about to lose the boat, so go easy on her.”
“Go easy?” I steer around another lobster pot. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but she’s giving me a hard time.”
Sara wraps her arms around me while I’m trying to steer the boat, and gives me a little squeeze followed with a kiss on my cheek. “Just go easy on her, okay?”
Later, we’re about halfway to Damariscove Island. The wind is still steady, but the air is starting to feel more damp than usual. I know from experience there’s a good chance fog will settle in.
Sara calls down into the cabin, “What are you doing down there, Jo?”
“Just looking through this logbook of yours.” Josephine pokes her head up through the opening. “I think I found something. In these pages—” she holds open the logbook and turns back to a page she’s bookmarked with a scrap of paper. “—says the name of the schooner was The Queen’s Rose?”
Sara and I both look at each other, eyes wide.
“No,” I say. “It can’t be.”
Sara finishes my sentence, “So Gus Emery wasn’t making any of it up. The name of the schooner he told us about was The Queen’s Rose.”
Chapter 8
On Our Way
“There’s no way his story could be true,” Sara says. “Gus Emery is just an old man trying to scare some kids with ghost stories.”
“Ghost stories?” Jo asks. “What’re y’all talking about?”
While I keep steering the sailboat, Sara tells Jo about our visit with Gus Emery. Jo keeps quiet, which I don’t mind, and lets Sara tell the whole story.
When Sara’s done, Jo quietly says, “I have to agree; it sounds like this ghost pirate might be real.”
Sara rolls her eye. “Not you too?”
“So now you’re on board with me about the ghost pirates?” Fisher asks. “What gives?”
“From what y’all are telling me, there’s too many things that add up; the name of the schooner, the old man’s story, and that weird poem. Besides, I think I know a thing or two about ghost ships. There’s a lot of tales told on Hatteras Island,” Jo says, “about ghosts and strange things on the water no one can explain. A lot of boats have sunk off the cape. They don’t call it the Graveyard of the Atlantic for no good reason. And if there’s one thing graveyards have is a lot of, it’s ghosts. Why couldn’t there be ghost ships up here too?”
Off in the distance, straight off our bow, I can start to see a strip of land by itself; it must be Damariscove Island. But I can also see, something thin and white creeping across off to the north tip of the island; fog. Pain-in-the-butt fog. There’s nothing worse than being in a sailboat when fog rolls in. Noises become more intense the less you can see. It’s like being a blind person trying to cross a road never knowing if a car is going to approach.
“Sara, do you see what I see,” I say pointing to the north end of the island.
“We should be okay,” she says. “We’re headed to the south end of the island that looks like a lobster claw. There’s a deep cove that runs right up the middle quite a ways into the island where we can anchor. It’ll be a good place for our boat.”
“Why’s that?” Jo asks.
“Because,” Fisher says, “the chart shows there are permanent mooring balls for people to tie their boats to. Damariscove Island must be where boaters like to go for day trips or tie up for the night. I guess we’ll find out.”
Jo is now standing near the mast with binoculars up to her eyes. “The island’s still a long ways off, but from here it doesn’t look like much of an island; not even a tree.”
I’m keeping my eye on the fog to the north. It seems to be devouring the island a little faster than I’d hoped. It’d be nice
to be at anchor before the fog engulfs the whole island.
I ask Sara, “Can you take a compass bearing where we should enter the cove. I want to have some idea where to go in case we don’t make it there before the fog hits.” With the hand-held compass aimed at the south end of Damariscove Island, Sara takes a reading. After she’s got a compass number, she goes below to write it out on the paper chart so we don’t forget. It’s one thing that’s great about Sara, she’s really good about details.
Fog can be sneaky especially if you’re not paying attention to it. One minute it’s clear blue, and the next without even realizing it, it can swallow you whole like some huge beast. I had a little problem the last time I was sailing this same boat offshore, I almost got run over. The scary part was, I could only hear it, and not once did I ever see it because the fog was so thick. I know it was a close call because the wake was huge and knocked the sailboat around pretty good, so I know it must have been a big vessel.
From below in the cabin, Sara calls up, “If I plotted our position correctly, I would say we are just a little past The Cuckolds.
“Got it. Thanks, Sara,” I call back to her. At least we know right where we are and where we need to go if the fog gets any thicker. One thing I’m becoming certain of; at the rate the fog is creeping south we’re going to sail into it for sure.
Jo’s still standing up near the mast scanning the sea with the binoculars to her eyes. I’m watching her while I keep an eye out for lobster pots. With more urgency, she removes them, looking only with her eyes, then puts them back up. She does this two more times.
After one more look, being careful not to get bucked off the deck of the bouncing sailboat, she moves back into the cockpit and sits next to me.
“I think I see something off to the north. Here, take a look,” she says handing me the binoculars.
