by M. D. Lee
“What are you talking about?” I say. “There’s more?”
“Yep. We’re gonna sink ’em,” she says with a smile beginning to curl at the corners of her mouth.
Chapter 22
Sink ’em!
“We don’t need to sink them!” I say. “They’re dead in the water. They’re going nowhere. We should be able to get back to Mr. P’s dock before they ever untangle their prop.”
Sara looks at Jo with an agitated expression across her face. “Fisher’s right. Let’s just get out of here.”
“If we sink them—” Jo stands up and looks back at the lobster boat. “—when they’re going down, they’re gonna have to call the Coast Guard with a Mayday. When the Coast Guard picks ’em all up they’re gonna discover it’s Skinny Pete, who they’ve been after for a while. When they do that, they’ll put two and two together and figure out about their smuggling operation.”
I look back toward them as we slowly sail farther away. “Why don’t we just call the Coast Guard from our radio right now and report them?” I’m about to turn the tiller over to Sara so she can steer and I can do just that.
Sara shakes her head with a glum look. “We can’t do that. This boat is registered in Mr. Plankinton’s name. The first thing the Coast Guard will do is ask us who’s the owner of this boat. And Mr. Plankinton doesn’t know we’re on his boat without his permission. What do you think will happen then? Even worse, we lied to our parents. They think we’re on a sailing trip with him. If we call the Coast Guard, guaranteed we’ll be in a lot of hot water.”
“But…” I put my hands up in the air.
Sara says, “This trip was a stupid idea from the beginning. I knew we shouldn’t have taken the sailboat. Fisher, why do I let you talk me into things?”
I let out a heavy sigh. “Well, we can’t just sail back and forget about them. They’ll get away somehow. Jo’s right, we’re going to have to sink them.”
I look hard at Jo. “Okay, miss genius, how are we going to sink them? Last I checked we didn’t load any torpedoes onboard.
“Don’t worry,” she says with a grin. “I’ve got a plan.”
I put my hand to my head. “Another plan. Brother. So what is it?”
“When I was in the engine-well, I noticed something. I could see a little light shining through a lower plank near the transom.”
“Yeah. So?” I say.
She looks serious again. “I pulled out my knife and gave the plank a poke, and it was just as I suspected. It was rotten as week-old watermelon. If I wanted to, I betcha I coulda kicked it out right there at the dock.”
Shaking my head, I say, “That still doesn’t explain how we’re going to sink them.”
“It’s going to be a little bit of a rodeo trick,” Jo says as she moves forward to the bow. Being careful to hang on as the bow dips up and down through the waves, she kneels down at the anchor hatch. When she has the hatch open, she reaches in pulling out the fluke-anchor and all the rope that goes with it, then comes back to the cockpit.
Carefully setting it down in the cockpit, she says, “We’re going to hook the rotten plank with this.”
“This is insane,” I protest. “You can’t throw an anchor, certainly not far enough to catch the plank.”
“That’s why you’re gonna sail us so close, I can spit at them. And all I have to do is swing the anchor at the plank as we go past. You’re gonna come at the boat from their stern then sail right at them. But you’re going to have to get close; I mean really close.”
I roll the idea around in my brain. I think I can do it, in fact I know I can do it; but can Jo? “Okay. Here we go. TACKING!” I call out before I spin the boat around into the wind. I give the tiller a hard push to the side and the sailboat goes into a sharp turn as we head back the way we came. The sails flap hard making a racket as we turn until wind fills in on the other side. I look over at Sara and grin, but all she does is shake her head.
Jo gives me a sharp slap to my shoulder. “I knew you’d come around. Now just sail the boat right up their transom; I’ll do the rest.”
As we sail past, Skinny Pete and Turk are standing near the back of the boat watching our every move. I’m sure they’re plenty confused why we’ve sailed back around. I guess they’ll find out soon enough. Once we’ve gone past them, I put on another extra hundred yards or so then call out, tacking again. I immediately turn the boat, and both Sara and Jo duck. Swoosh! The boom swings past above us. Now I’m aimed right at the stern of their boat and closing in fast. I take a deep breath and let it out.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter to myself. “Jo I hope you know what you’re doing.”
“You’re aimed perfect. Just keep it steady right up the pickle-barrel,” she says now with the anchor in hand.
Jo positions herself standing at the rail of our boat. “Sara. Grab hold of me by my pants and don’t let me fall overboard.” Sara grabs on with both hands.
We’re now only fifty yards away and still moving through the water at a good clip. Jo leans farther out, and starts to swing the anchor back and forth as Sara holds her tight.
We’re so close now I can see the look on Skinny Pete’s face, but I can’t tell if it’s a laugh or he’s just shocked at what he’s seeing. If I saw a young girl coming at me swinging an anchor, I’d probably dive for cover.
We’re seconds away, and Jo shouts, “Just keep it steady, Fisher!” I am just a hair past their transom. It’s going to be close! In a fraction of a second Jo gives the anchor a good swing and heaves it like some crazy Gladiator with all her might at the lower plank.
THUNK!
It’s a solid hit and the sharp flukes of the anchor sink into the rotten wood like a fork in a baked potato just as we sail past only inches away.
In that same instant I realize Turk’s standing on the bow of the lobster boat with the trident in hand ready to throw, but Jo and Sara don’t see him. Letting go of the tiller I dive for Jo and Sara knocking them hard into the bottom of the cockpit. FWAPP! There’s the sound of a sharp metal point hitting wood like a dart hitting a corkboard. The two girls are a little confused by what just happened, but when we look up from the cockpit we’re already several yards away. In the transom the trident is stuck deep into the wood.
Jo jumps up with the anchor rope still in her hands. The coiled rope is peeling off fast over the stern. “What’s the strongest part on the boat?”
“The winch!” I shout to her pointing to the drum, about the size of a coffee can mounted securely to the deck. It’s the strongest because it’s used to pull the sails in even in the windiest conditions. In a second she has the tail-end of the anchor rope secured fast to the winch.
I hadn’t thought about this part of the plan, but right away I know I’m not going to like it. The three of us keep a sharp eye on the anchor rope when suddenly it snaps tight. Instantly, we’re thrown across the cockpit as the sailboat violently comes to a stop then our boat rolls sharply on its side from the shock load to the winch. Once again the three of us land on top of each other. In the same split second water rushes into the cockpit and for a moment we’re swimming yet still somehow in the boat. But because the sailboat has ballast, which is a heavy lead weight that keeps it balanced while it’s sailing, the boat slowly rights itself with us still in it.
It takes a moment to get our wits about us, but when I do, I notice the anchor rope has gone slack. Jo stands up, brushes back her dripping wet hair, and looks over the stern following the rope floating on top of the water. “There!” she says pointing. “It’s the plank!”
I see it too. The rotten plank is clearly pried off the lobster boat floating in the water. “We did it!”
Jo rapidly slides her knife out and slices the anchor rope freeing it from the boat.
“JO!” I yell as I watch the rope disappear into the water behind us. “Now I’m going to have to buy Mr. P a new anchor. And they’re not cheap!”
With her hands up in the air, Jo says, “G
eez! Sorry I just saved our butts.”
When I look back at the lobster boat, I remember the trident’s stuck into the transom. Suddenly my gut feels sick. When Mr. P see’s three holes in the transom he’s going to know we borrowed his boat. We’re cooked.
Sara grabs the tiller from me to steer while I lean over the back to have a closer look. I let out a heavy sigh. The three prongs are stuck deep into the perfectly varnished wood. With both hands I grab hold of the trident and yank hard. Nothing happens on the first pull, but by the third pull it rips free tearing out chunks of wood with it. Now it looks even worse.
Standing up with the trident in my hand, shaking my head, I look at it then toss it into the water. “That was too close. I’m not even sure why he missed.”
Sara points to the lobster boat while she’s still steering. “Look. I think they’re taking on water. The bow’s starting to point upward.”
Jo takes delight admiring her work. “She’s right, the back of the boat’s sitting much lower in the water.” Also the bow rises a little higher out of the water like the Titanic. I’m certain they’re starting to sink.
I jump down below and turn on the VHF radio and turn the volume up. There’s nothing but dead air. Just as I sit back down in the cockpit next to Sara, the radio crackles to life. “Mayday—Mayday—Mayday. This is the vessel Catch of the Day” There’s no mistaking that voice as Skinny Pete’s. The plan worked!
A moment later there’s a monition voice that answers, “Catch of the Day, this is the U.S. Coast Guard. What is the nature of your emergency?”
“We’re sinking!” shouts Skinny Pete.
After about a half hour or so of good sailing, the lobster boat, or what’s left of it, is now on the horizon. I can’t see it anymore, but Jo and Sara have been taking turns with the binoculars keeping a close eye on them.
We’re just about to the red bell-buoy to steer toward Trent Harbor when Sara says, “Here they come. The Coast Guard.” She hands the binoculars to me and I take a look. Sure enough, there’s a large white boat on the horizon with a red stripe on its bow almost at the spot where we last saw Skinny Pete and Turk.
“Well,” says Jo, “I guess that takes care of everything. We’re free and clear.”
Feeling my stomach getting sour again, I say, “Not exactly. There’re three holes in the transom of Mr. P’s boat. There’s no getting around this one. We’re busted.”
“What’s the big deal? It’s just three holes,” Jo says. “Can’t you just put some putty in them?”
“It’s just three holes that got bigger when I pulled the trident out. It’s gonna be major repair to get it looking perfect again. Did you see how the varnished wood shines? It’s like an expensive coffee table! Only a professional boatbuilder will know how to fix that. A boatbuilder who’s going to charge me a lot of money.” I take a deep breath and hold it hoping it’ll get rid of my sour stomach.
Suddenly the enormity of our situation hits me like a freight train. Once again, I’ve ‘borrowed’ Mr. P’s sailboat without his permission, we’ve lied to our parents, and smugglers almost killed us. And we didn’t find one stinking gold coin! How did this get so far out of control?
Sara and Jo also have glum looks on their faces. I feel bad because I dragged Sara into this; it’s not really her fault. In less than an hour we’ll be tied up at the dock and I’ll have a whole other set of problems to deal with. This sure didn’t turn out the way I’d hoped it would.
Chapter 23
Consequences
This morning heavy fog is blanketing the town making for some cold damp air. The tops of the pine trees disappear into the gray mist. But even if it was a sunny day I doubt it’d improve my mood.
We’ve been back for a day now, so I’m headed over to Mr. P’s house because later this afternoon he and his wife will be arriving. Now that I look back, the whole idea of searching for treasure was a bad one right from the start, or at least the way we did it. I don’t know what happened; maybe the whole idea of getting rich blocked any common sense I had. It probably wouldn’t have been a big deal, either, if Skinny Pete hadn’t shown up. I guess it’s true, people do stupid things when there’s a lot of money involved. And there wasn’t even any treasure. But now I have to deal with explaining to Mr. P about the three holes in the varnished wood transom.
I’ve been walking my bike rather than riding it for the last hour. I’m not in a hurry to get there, and walking it has given me time to think. What to tell Mr. P about the three holes? Unfortunately all this thinking time hasn’t helped me come up with one darn thing that’s even close to brilliant. I hope the truth works. I might as well get this over with. I swing myself up onto my bike and start peddling to the Plankinton’s house.
Peddling up their long driveway toward their large cedar shingle home, I can see up ahead, near the three car garage, a long white Lincoln Continental; Mr. P’s car. I can’t get a break, they’re already here! My stomach starts doing flip flops.
Just as I ride up to the house, Mr. P steps out onto their front porch. He’s dressed neatly with tan pants and a light blue button down like he just stepped out of the yacht club. Along with his white hair, he also has a trimmed up white mustache that gives him sort of the sea captain look. But he’s not; he’s a financial businessman from New York City. “Fisher, young man,” he calls out with a wave and a smile. “I’m glad to see you here. Perfect timing. We just arrived an hour ago. I was about to go down to the boat to see how she’s doing.”
I don’t say anything and only shake his outstretched hand. “Come. Let’s have a look,” he says. I would rather be anywhere but here right at this moment, but not knowing what else to do, I follow him down the path to the dock.
Just before we reach the dock I stop. “Mr. Plankinton. I need to tell you something about your sailboat.”
He stops too, turns to me placing his hands on his hip with raised eyebrows. “Yes?”
I’m still not sure what I’m going to tell him, but it’s only going to be a matter of minutes before he notices the three holes in the perfectly varnished transom of the sailboat. I take a deep breath. “I’m not sure how to tell you this.”
He looks at me with a slightly more stern expression on his face. “Go on.”
*
I set the cardboard box that I carried all the way back from the Plankinton’s, down on the corner of the picnic bench. Inside the box are all my things that I kept on the sailboat: a rain jacket, rubber boots, a sweat-shirt, my book on seamanship, a cap, and several other things I had laying around.
At this hour, late morning, there aren’t any customers here at the Sea Side Restaurant. Besides, the foggy day will probably keep a lot of customers from sitting outside on the picnic benches. I look over at the pick-up window and can see Sara in the back getting things ready for the day. I’m not sure what she’s doing, but she seems busy. Finally she glances out the window, and I give her a slight wave. Sara, in return, holds up one finger; she’ll be out in just a minute.
As I’m poking through my boxes of things, I look up to see Jo standing at the end of the table. She’s wearing the navy blue T-shirt with the name Sea Side Restaurant across it because she’s helping out bussing tables and other odd jobs while she’s still here visiting Sara.
Jo points at the box. “What’s up with that?”
I look at it feeling sick to my stomach. “Oh, just a few of my things from the sailboat.”
“Hmm…” she says folding her arms across her chest.
Just then Sara sits down next to me as she pulls off her white apron. She also looks at the box. “It didn’t go so well, did it?”
“Nope,” I answer. “I’m not sure what I was expecting; I thought maybe he’d yell at me a little and that would be it. But this is way worse.”
“He fired you?” Jo says in a low voice.
“I guess you could call it that,” I say. “But he said he was ‘letting me go.’ ” I pause for a moment thinking about it. “The th
ing is, he really didn’t want to do it because he thought I was doing a fine job taking care of the sailboat. He also said I was a fine young man who he enjoyed employing. But taking a sailboat without permission was serious business. He said the first time I had done it, he could look the other way as long as I learned from the mistake. But this being the second time, well, I should know better and therefore I have to live with the consequences. There’s more to it, but that’s about the size of it.”
“So you told him the whole story about Skinny Pete and that ugly Turk?” Jo asks. “How they captured you and Sara, and about him throwing the trident at us?”
“I sort of left that part out. I didn’t want him flying off the handle and calling the police.”
“Mr. Plankinton doesn’t strike me as someone who would fly off the handle,” Sara says.
“They caught Skinny Pete and Turk, so what’s the difference,” I say.
Sara just shrugs.
“I told Mr. P when we were on Damariscove Island we backed the boat into a piling that had some nails sticking out, that’s how the transom ended up with three splintered holes.”
Changing the subject, I ask, “How’d you make out with your parents?” Sara figured it’d be best to tell her parents up front about what happened because sooner or later they’d hear it from someone. She’s probably right.
“They were disappointed with me,” she says looking down at the backs of her fingers. “But they were proud of me coming and telling them first, so they went easy on me. I have to do all the laundry for the rest of the summer and be in the house by seven.”
“I guess that’s not too bad,” I say. “It could have been worse.”
“You should tell you parents too,” Sara says as she gives my arm a slight squeeze. “I’m sure our parents will talk to one another, so they’re going to find out. It’s better if you tell them first.”
