by M.D. Lee
I realize skipping my first day of work is only going to get me in even more hot water. Mrs. Fennel’s going to be upset, and my dad isn’t going to like it one bit. Everyone’s going to be mad at me, but they’re just going to have to take a number and get in line. My life is in danger. I’m sticking with my plan. There’s no other way.
The last hour before Sara arrives is the longest. I’m excited to see her. I want to get going with my plan and, of course, I’m starving. I sure hope she brings some food.
I hear footsteps coming down the path. Knowing it’s probably Sara I still freeze in one place because I can’t be sure. Careful not to make a sound, I grab hold of the rope that leads to the crate of rocks above the door.
There’s a light tap. “Fisher, it’s me, Sara,” says the voice on the other side.
I open it a crack to peek through. There she is, brown hair hanging loose, and dressed in clothes that, once again, do not look like her sister’s old hand-me-downs. I notice she’s carrying her small sailing duffel bag, so she must have just come from afternoon sailing class. Ah, Sara. I’m happier to see her than I ever thought possible. I open the door to let her in, and then quickly close it behind her.
Not really sure if it’s the right thing to do, or not, I lean in any way to give her a kiss. She stops me cold by putting her hand up in front of my face.
“Whoa, wait a minute, mister. You can’t be doing that because I need to know what the heck is going on.” I feel stupid, hanging in midair, waiting for a kiss.
“Well,” I say, wondering just how much I should tell her for her own safety. “It’s like this. Last night, when I was walking home from your house, I saw something that I shouldn’t have and now I need to get out of here.”
“What did you see?” Her arms are crossed, and she has a serious look about her.
I take a deep breath. “Something really bad, so bad that I need to get out of here.”
“Tell me,” Sara insists.
For her own safety, I shouldn’t tell her any more than she needs to know. But on the other hand, she could be a big help getting me out of this jam. I reason she’s a smart girl; I’m sure she’ll be careful.
I hesitate, then say, “I saw Police Chief O’Reilly and the mayor shoving a dead body into the trunk of a car.”
She listens intently to the words I’m saying, and then a smile grows across her face. “You did not! You are just saying that to get me here to your hideout, and―”
I slam my fist down hard on the table, surprising myself more than her. “It’s true! They saw me, and now they’re looking for me. If they catch me, I could be the next one in the trunk. I think I’m in an awful lot of trouble.”
“You’re serious,” she says, putting both hands to her face. “But why would they do such a thing?”
“How should I know? Whatever the reason, I need to stay hidden until this clears over.”
We sit down on the sofa and I take her hand in mine while I tell her the whole story of what happened. She doesn’t say anything, or ask any questions, until I’m done.
Her face is pale, and her eyes have a faraway look. Finally, she says, “This is bad, really bad.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about this all day. The only thing I can think of is I need to get out of here; at least for a little while until things cool down a bit.”
“What do you mean you have to get out of here? Where will you go?”
“I have to leave Trent Harbor.”
“You’re serious,” she says. “Why don’t you just tell your dad what you saw? I’m sure he’ll know what to do.”
“I can’t. I overheard police Chief O’Reilly last night and they’re watching my house. They’ll grab me the second I get near.”
“But you can’t just run away. If you don’t come home, your parents are going to go to the police anyway.”
“I don’t know what else to do. I’m scared out of my mind,” I say, closing my eyes. I wish this would all just go away. “If I stay here, I’m sure as dead. And, if I leave here, my dad is going to kill me anyway. I’m only thirteen; I don’t have too many choices.”
“But your mom is going to be worried sick about you.”
“I can’t help it. I feel terrible about it.”
I just shake my head. Finally, I say, “There’re hundreds of islands out there. I’m just going to sail to one and stay there for a while.”
“That’s a bad plan,” she says, with a little quiver in her voice. “Where are you going to get a sailboat? Did you think about that?
“Are you kidding me? I’ve had all day to think about it,” I say, getting a little irritated at the question. I’m edgy, though. “Do you know the summer home at the end of Lark Street? With the statue of the eagle out front? Well, those people never come up here until August. But their sailboat’s already in the water and docked on the pier outside their house. It’s the perfect size for me, about 21 feet with a cutty cabin. I can singlehand it, no problem.”
“You can’t just sail away in a boat that’s not yours! That’s stealing! Besides, someone is going to see you in it and they’ll tell the harbor master. You’ll be picked up and sitting in the police station in a matter of hours. And you can add boat theft to your list of problems.”
“That’s why I’m going to leave after dark,” I say, adding, “The tide will be high about then, and I’m sure as hell not going to turn on the running lights.”
“You’re crazy! Do you know how many rocks are out there for you to run into?”
She doesn’t need to remind me; anyone who lives in Maine knows there are hundreds of smashed up boats that have hit rocks. Some made it back to shore and others sank. If you don’t know the area it’s dangerous to go out there in a boat, even in daylight. Just the tide and crazy currents alone can mess up even the best local lobsterman. Knowing the waters only makes it a little less dangerous.
Her angry expression clearly shows she does not like this idea, but I really have no choice.
“Look, I’ll be fine,” I say to try and reassure her, but I’m not even convincing myself.
“Here’s what I need you to do. I need you to go and get some food, as much as you can carry, and meet me at 9 o’clock tonight at the boat. Can you do that?”
She looks scared, but nods her head yes. “Try to get canned foods and things that won’t spoil.”
Talking about food quickly reminds me that I’m starved. “Do you have anything to eat right now?” I ask. Sara reaches into her duffel bag and hands over a half-eaten sandwich. Wow. I never thought a bologna and cheese sandwich would taste so good. It’s gone in two bites.
Watching me inhale her sandwich, she says, “What are you going to tell your parents? Don’t you think they’re going to make a big scene when you don’t come home?”
It’s true; they’re probably going to send out a search party for me. Any parent would. I think hard about it. I’ll have to give them some sort of letter to reassure them I’m okay so they won’t come looking for me. An idea tickling the back of my mind begins to take shape.
When my dad was about my age, he left home to take a job with the Civilian Conservation Corps. He’s always talking about it, but I never paid too much attention. I sort of remember that the CCC built hiking trails and made things for parks during the Depression. It was like big work camps for young men or something like that. I also remember he said he lied about his age because he was only thirteen, and they only recruited boys that were seventeen and older. But it’s one of those things in his life he was proud of; he was earning money for his family during the Depression. Maybe that’s why he’s always riding me about working hard and not being lazy.
“Do you have a pen and paper?” I ask Sara. She pulls a piece of paper out of her three-ring binder and hands me a pen.
I write, Dear Mom and Dad, but that’s as far as I get. I think hard about what I’m going to write because it has to keep them from looking for me, or worrying. I wipe my sweaty
palms on my jeans and look at what I’ve written, hoping for inspiration: Dear Mom and Dad, but my mind goes blank. I take a deep breath, and try it again.
Dear Mom and Dad,
Please do not be upset with me, but listening to Dad’s stories about how he worked in the CCC building trails and parks made me think I should try the same thing. I am going to take the bus to Vermont and see if I can get a job working at one of the parks. I have some money from my savings account, so I should be okay for a while. Please do not worry; Dad did this when HE was my age and everything turned out OK. I will send you a letter as soon as I can when I find a job at a park, or whoever will take me.
Love, your son,
Fisher
I’m not totally convinced the letter will work, but that’s all I can come up with. If nothing else, maybe it’ll send them in the wrong direction, but I truly do not want them to worry about me. I fold it up and hand it to Sara.
“Can you make sure they get this? Do not tell them anything. It might be best if you just leave it at the front door for them to find so they don’t start asking you questions. If they figure out you dropped it off, tell them you only know what’s in the letter, but nothing else. Got it? Oh, and don’t drop it off until after I’ve left. If they start looking for me I want to make sure I’m long gone.”
She nods, also not totally convinced that this will work.
I add, “I think you should get going. You’ve got to get some food for me and I need to leave on the high tide. The longer I wait, the better my chances are at hitting a rock.”
“But Fisher,” Sara protests. “Are you sure this is a smart thing to do?”
“I don’t think it’s smart at all, but I don’t think I have any other choice.”
I stand up, pulling her with me, and look into her eyes. “I’ll be fine.” But I don’t really believe it myself. “Get going.”
At the door she turns to look at me, then quickly closes it behind her. Suddenly, I’m alone again. I better get used to being alone.
I have a plan in front of me that makes me feel a little better, but there’re just so many things happening so fast. I flop back down on the sofa, squeezing my eyes tight.
If I wasn’t late last night, I wouldn’t have taken that shortcut through the back parking lot of the liquor store, and I wouldn’t have seen the police chief and mayor shoving a body into the trunk. Why do things like that happen? It could’ve been anybody, but it was me. Now I have a huge problem.
As time passes and the daylight begins to fade, I start to get antsy. I’m feeling like there’s something I need to prepare for sailing tonight. If I was just heading out on a day sailing trip there’d still be lots of things I needed to do; pack a lunch, gather foul-weather gear, and check the weather report. But waiting here, in my hideout, with nothing but the clothes on my back, leaves me feeling a little sick to my stomach.
Added to that, I’m not even sure I know where I’m going, and what islands I can actually land on. I’ve never looked at a chart much past our own harbor. Once, in our sailing classes, we were taught how to read a chart and walk off miles with dividers, but that was only one rainy afternoon about a year ago. We never had a chance to try it for real. I should’ve asked Sara to grab a chart from the sailing club. Damn! Now I think of the good ideas!
After what feels like an eternity, my watch says 8 o’clock. It’s dark outside, and time to go. I look around the place. I have no things to collect, so I just leave.
I wonder if I’m ever going to see this place again. It feels like I’ll be back tomorrow, just like always, but I know it’ll be a long time before I’ll be coming back. I hope it’ll still be here when I return. Walking quickly, I leave the hideout behind me in the darkness.
Getting to the house on Lark Street is taking me much longer than I planned. I need to stay hidden in the shadows of the dark as much as I can. In some places I take side streets with no streetlights, and that takes longer, too.
The house with the eagle in front is like most of the summer homes in Maine. It’s big, with lots of bedrooms, so a mess of family members can all stay for one big gathering. Also, it has a huge porch that wraps around the whole house with lots of chairs overlooking the ocean. People who own houses like this one are usually from someplace else because most people from Trent Harbor can’t afford a place like this.
Behind the house is a path that leads down to the water where the owner has a private dock with a larger power boat and a sailboat tied off. Soon to be my sailboat.
When I get down to the dock it’s dark and quiet, with no one around. I study the boat and hope I’ll be able to sail it by myself. This one, being a little bigger than the club boats I’m used to, usually needs one other person to act as crew to help trim the sails and such. By myself, I’m going to have my hands full.
The wooden planks on the hull are painted a bright white with a small blue cove strip just under the rail. Even in the dark the boat looks stunning. Each piece of mahogany trim is perfectly varnished and the shine off the trim, even in the low light, makes it look wet. The boatyard that delivered it to the dock has coiled up each line and sheet in a perfect little circle, making everything as neat and tidy as they could. This customer must be a good one because they made sure everything is just so. I feel bad that whenever the day comes when the owner arrives, the guys at the boatyard are going to get the blame for the missing sailboat.
I notice just before I climb aboard that there’s a gentle breeze out of the west, which is almost perfect for sailing out of the harbor. With no motor on the boat, I’m going to have to use all my skills to sail it out of the harbor. A westerly breeze should let me sail in a straight line and not have to worry about tacking back and forth. That makes me feel a little better.
In the dark, I’m careful stepping on board. There’re plenty of things to trip on. Taking a look at the deck, I try to memorize where everything is laid out. Sailing solo I’ll be busy enough without having to figure out where everything is in the dark so, the more I know, the better off I’ll be. Satisfied I know what’s what, I go below.
It’s totally dark down here, but I need to find some charts. Somehow fumbling around the galley, I feel my way toward the stern and manage to stumble across a box of matches, so I strike one, which reveals two oil lamps. Perfect. I only light one up because I’m afraid someone might see light coming out of the porthole.
But soon there’re footsteps coming down the dock, so I quickly reach over and snuff out the oil light. Please let it be Sara, I think. If it’s anyone else, I’m done for. There’re two short steps that lead out of the cabin to the cockpit, so I step on the bottom one and cautiously poke my head out to see. It’s hard to tell in the dark. All I can make out is the silhouette of a person carrying a small bundle.
Standing almost over me, on the dock, Sara says, in a soft voice, “Fisher?”
“I’m down here,” I call up to her.
I still really can’t see her face in the dark, but I suddenly feel a little less nervous about what I’m about to do. If it all goes wrong, this is going to make for great town gossip: Did you hear about that boy who stole a sailboat and smashed it up on the rocks?
She’s particularly careful not to make any noise as she climbs aboard, then hands me the sack.
In a whisper, she says, “It’s mostly canned stuff I found in my mother’s pantry. None of it’s all that good, but it’s the best I could do. There’s squash, beans, and soup. Oh, and I found a loaf of bread, too.”
“That’s great,” I say, trying to reassure her. “Help me get the sails up. Then I’m going to need you to give me a shove off the dock.”
In the dark, we make our way topside and unfurl the sails.
After the sails are hanked on, we both pull hard on the halyard. When the mainsail begins to go up, a light breeze catches it and it starts to luff back and forth, making clanging noises from the metal fittings slapping about. I might as well start ringing church bells for all t
he noise we’re making.
“Hurry!” I say, in a loud whisper. Both of us pull even harder on the halyard. Next, we grab the jib and do the same thing. From the slapping of both sails there is just too much noise in the otherwise quiet night. I need to get out of here!
Once the sails are up and I’m satisfied how they look, I grab Sara’s hands and say, “I’ve got to go now before someone hears us.”
I give her a kiss, and this time it seems even better than I remembered it.
Then I say, “Somehow I’ll get a message to you that I’m all right. I don’t know how, but I’ll think of something.”
She throws the lines off and gives the bow a hard shove with her foot, sending me off into the current while I harden up on the sails. When the sails are tight, the loud racket from the luffing comes to a stop. It’s almost silent now except for the water rushing past the hull, which only leaves a foamy trail.
It seems funny now; I’d been so careful to remember my compass heading, but now it’s absolutely useless because I can’t read any of the numbers on the compass in the dark. Another trick I remember reading about is to find a light from the town behind me and make sure it stays in the same place over the transom the whole time. If I can keep the light in the same spot, it means I’m sailing in a straight line. But that only works if I’m going in the right direction in the first place; all I can do is hope I am.
The boat handles well, even better than I thought it would. I let out a deep breath and begin to relax a little and just concentrate on keeping it going in a straight line. Straining my eyes as hard as I can doesn’t seem to help to see things in the dark, but the farther away I get from the lights on shore, the more my eyes adjust to the darkness.
Suddenly, there’s something black, like a large demon coming right at the bow. I pull hard on the tiller trying to miss whatever it is. BANG! Scraping sounds screech along the side of the hull. In a dreadful instant I realize I’ve hit another sailboat on a mooring. In the low light I couldn’t see the dark green hull of the other sailboat until it was too late. Almost as quickly as I’ve hit it, it disappears behind me, back into the darkness like a ghost.
In a moment of complete terror I’m not sure what I should do. Go back to the dock? Go below and look for damages? Or keep going? The boat still seems to be steering well, and as far as I can tell the rigging and sails aren’t damaged. I’m worried that I may have punched a hole in the side of the boat, but honestly I wasn’t going that fast so chances are good all that happened was I scraped the perfect paint job. I decide to keep going.
