by Matt Musson
Around eight bells, we grabbed our chance between the heat of the day and the approaching weather. Scampering downstairs, we geared up and assaulted the beach.
Using surf poles and three ounce pyramid weights, we fed the fish little mole crabs called sand fleas that we dug up on the beach. The fishing was excellent and for over an hour, we landed a steady stream of bluefish and croaker, punctuated with an occasional yellow finned pompano.
Eventually, someone (in this case Freddie) felt compelled to drop a handful of sand and live mole crabs down the back of someone else's (Charlie's) swimsuit.
Charlie dashed out into water up to his waist, so he could pull down his suit and wash out the sand and the sea creatures. Of course he threatened to retaliate against little Freddie, but Shad admonished him not to be so ‘crabby'.
Before long, sunshine gave way to shade and thunder began to rumble in. Strong breezes kicked up and started sand blasting our tender places. Intimidating crackles of lightning, followed by rolling crescendos of thunder, convinced us to reel in our lines and head to the house.
We'd just made it back to the Center and were lining up to wash off in the outdoor shower when the skies opened up and made queuing a moot point. A moving wall of plump raindrops engulfed us as we stood washing the sand off our bodies. Water began to hit us in buckets and sheets and within seconds, we were soaked once again.
There is something ancient and powerful about standing against nature as she pounds you with rain and almost solid currents of air. A summer squall not only reveals awesome power, it inspires a feeling of smallness. The native creatures of our barrier island have sense enough to head for shelter and higher ground when the storms roll in. Eventually a nearby lightning strike encouraged us to do the same.
The sweaty summer afternoon gave way to a damp and windy evening that was downright cold. Miss Mynah helped us fight the chill with warm food and a pot full of homemade vegetable soup. The rain drummed the windows all through dinner and through the World Monopoly Championship we played afterwards.
Rain was still falling steady when I crawled between the covers that night, exhausted from a long day of exploration and discovery. I settled into a cozy nest of circled sheets and piled bed spread and offered up my regular evening prayers.
Like I did every night, I asked God to watch over my family and my friends and keep us all safe and help us to succeed in our mission to save Levi. But tonight, I felt the need to add special thanks. I thanked Him for the chance just to be here - on this exciting and beautiful island - accompanied by my best friends in the whole world.
Then, safe and warm, I closed my eyes and slept through storm and wind and rain; right through till dawn broke fresh and clear on a brand new day.
************
Chapter 13 – Cape Lookout Day 6
First thing each morning, Freddie and Bogdon called On*Star for an update on our whale's position. We did not need to maintain our webpage tracker anymore. But, we did update a genuine foldable paper map of the Eastern seaboard. Bogdon highlighted the track of our big friend with a navy colored sharpie, so we could keep up with Levi at a glance.
It was Freddie's job to fold the paper diagram back into a square small enough to slide into its manila envelope home which was covered front and back with the declaration: Rangers - Confidential Materials – Eyes Only.
The reason it takes a two man team to handle this simple daily task is because Bogdon Peabody could not accurately fold a map if his life depended on it! Somewhere in Bogdon's DNA encryptions there is a vacant protein sequence where the map folding gene should appear. (And, if you think he's bad with a map – you should see him try and wrap a Christmas present.)
Anyway, according to On*Star, Levi's approach to Cape Lookout was inline with our projections. So, on the morning of our sixth day at the Cape, we contacted the On*Star people and requested they ‘unlock our car doors'. When the unlock signal bounced off the On*Star satellite and reflected down to our whale – it activated the short range locating beacon in the electronic bug he was carrying.
It took almost two months of planning, hundreds of hours of sweat and effort and many thousands of dollars to bring us to this spot. But, push was finally coming to shove. We were nearing the goal we had been working towards since Bogdon first proposed our crazy rescue mission. Within 48 hours, we would get our final shot at freeing the whale.
Our final errand was looming. It was time to go to town and pick up our rescue boat.
Rather than catch the ferry to Harkers Island, pick up the van and drive to town, we decided instead to take the world's largest speedboat directly into Beaufort. The 73 foot long ‘Lookout Express' is like a bright yellow Torpedo Boat complete with a toothy shark's mouth painted across the bow. However, instead of torpedoes, the Express carries passengers. And, it makes several high speed trips each day from Beaufort to Cape Lookout and back. In our case, we just rode the return leg.
All members of Company A, along with our adult chaperone Donnie, boarded the fierce some yellow monster at the Lighthouse pier around 10 o'clock in the morning. A handful of early bird passengers came off the craft. They would spend the day exploring the island, visiting the lighthouse and combing the pristine Cape Lookout beaches. As the only passengers on the return trip that morning, we planned to spend the day exploring Beaufort, eating food that was bad for us, and visiting the maritime museum. At day’s end, we would pick up a rental skiff and motor her back to Cape Lookout.
Following a thirty minute high speed run that included lots of splash inducing fishtails executed just for our benefit, the Lookout Express slid into her designated slot among the dozens of boat slips and landings of downtown Beaufort, NC. Even our boat pilot was dripping water as he pointed out the largest ocean going yacht tied up at the downtown docks.
“That one once belonged to millionaire developer Donald Crump,” he mentioned. “Now it belongs to ‘The Donald's' ex-wife, Ivanna.”
“Wow! She probably has hot and cold running Dasani on that boat,” Shad observed.
Smiling broadly and dripping from head to toe, we squish squashed up the gang plank to the downtown Beaufort. The waterfront was overwhelming to our small town crew. Bevies of million dollar yachts of the Rich and Famous, cradled against the weathered wooden piers protected by rubber tires from colonies of slime green barnacles. Just off out in the channel a hundred sailboats of every size and color anchored in a peaceful flotilla. Flags from Canada, Australia and island nations throughout the Caribbean whipped and fluttered in the morning breeze.
Like sailors jumping ship, we couldn't wait to start our six hour shore leave. Our money man, Toby Trundle, handed us each a $20 bill and gave one to Donnie as well. Charlie suggested we meet for lunch at a waterfront grill called GILLS at 1:30, and that we pick up the boat at 5 o'clock. Aside from that, we would be free to roam and explore the small waterfront town at will.
Front Street in Beaufort opens on one side to the waters of Taylor's Creek. That's because, Beaufort was settled in 1717, before there were any roads in this part of the state. So, if you wanted to go visit a friend you sailed your boat down the creek to see him. Today, the Beaufort waterfront and Taylor's Creek are still the focus of the quaint little seaport.
On the land side, Front Street is filled with small two story brick buildings dominated by local restaurants, specialty shops and companies that provision the sailboats and yachts that make port here from all over the world. Because Beaufort is midway between Newport, Rhode Island and Miami Beach, vessels making the long trip between the summer sailing grounds in New England and the winter grounds in Florida often stop off for a few days in Beaufort to rest and reprovision.
With complete dry dock facilities and skilled local craftsmen, a boat can have her keel scraped and repainted or get her diesel engines tuned up or even completely rebuilt. Meanwhile, sailors and Captains can dine in sidewalk cafes, listen to op
en air concerts and watch sunset rays highlighting the wild banker ponies grazing just across the creek on Carrot Island.
Beaufort was way different from Camp Lejeune. This place was ‘G' rated and highbrow, and there wasn't a tattoo parlor in sight. It was also ‘historic', so there were plenty of old buildings and stuff. My personal favorite was the wildly spooky graveyard called the ‘Old Burying Place'. Thanks to a thicket of maritime oaks, the moss covered centuries old gravestones seemed dark and shadowed even in the light of day.
There was also a restored jail with wooden stocks out front. Every of us had to get a cell phone photo with our hands and head poking through the hinged wooden boards like some 17th century ruffian.
Returning to the waterfront of this quaint little port, we wandered down the weathered board walk, passing millionaire boat owners and day labor Menhaden fishermen. There were party boats and sport fishing boats filled with pretty people. And, there were battered wooden dingys with antique outboards, piloted by leather skinned old men that were probably antiques themselves.
At the center of town, we passed a small wooden building that was marked ‘Harbor Master's Office'. And we walked by a couple of trendy patio restaurants, before we arrived at one of Beaufort's most important landmarks: the Old Fudge Shoppe.
The front of the Shoppe had an expansive plate glass window where passersby could stop and watch buttery sweet fudge being worked on a table top that was one huge piece of white and gray marble. As we walked up, a semi-liquid chocolate confection was being paddled back and forth by a young teenage girl sporting a white ‘Fudge Shoppe' apron and a paper hat.
Charlie waved in at the pretty young candy maker, while Shad pressed his nose against the window – drooling over the confection. Clearly, it was time to stop our aimless exploration and go inside.
************
Chapter 14 – Tinker to Evers to Chance
As we entered the fudge shop, we were simultaneously stuck with chilly air conditioned air and the enticing smells of a dozen different homemade candies. Shad wasted no time in stepping up to the counter to evaluate his options.
“My name is Cindy, and I'll be right with you,” said the pretty young lass. “But, I have to finish working this fudge before it cools down.”
“That's just fine, Cindy. Take your time,” replied Charlie, shooting her his best ‘guy on the prowl' smile.
But, Shad's face contorted in anguish. He'd been anxiously waiting for almost a week for some fudge. He wanted it now!
Nevertheless, we were forced to wait a few minutes longer while Cindy finished working the sweet Chocolaty goo. She had a large wooden spoon in each hand that would qualify as a small paddle. And, she used the flat wooden ends to scrape chocolate fudge from the marble cooling surface. Then she turned it over and stirred it back into the center of the hardening mass.
Shad narrated for us.
“Fudge is a crystalline candy,” he explained. ”That means crystal formation is the key to making great fudge. Tiny micro crystals of sugar in fudge give fudge its firm but smooth texture. The secret to successful fudge is getting these crystals to form at just the right time. When the crystals are small enough, they don't feel grainy on your tongue or teeth. That's from ‘The Secret Life of Fudge' on the Food Channel.”
Cindy lifted up the mass and turning it over one last time. She stood back and evaluated her work with a practiced eye. Giving a satisfied puff, she scattered the strands of blonde hair that had escaped from her paper hat and fallen across her face.
“That ought to do it,” she said.
Then she looked up at Shad and smiled. “Hopefully the micro fine sugar crystals will be up to your demanding standards.”
Then she addressed all of us.
“Are you boys ready for the world's creamiest fudge?”
“How do we know it's the world's creamiest fudge?” asked Charlie, raising one eyebrow and flashing another confident smile.
“Because… I made it myself,” Cindy answered provocatively.
She pulled off her paper hat and blonde tresses fell to her shoulders. Then, she did one of those hair flip maneuvers that girls are always doing around Charlie Sinclair.
“And, I am the very best.”
Cindy leaned over the top of an antique brass cash register and fixed on Charlie with her sparkling blue eyes.
No, I thought! Not again! Not another Charlie Sinclair flirtarama! If they start making comments about fudge that have those double meanings, as in ‘I like mine hot and sweet' – I swear I'm going to gag!
Lucky for us, Shad took matters into his own hands. He stepped right between Charlie and Fudge Girl.
“Sounds great, Blondie,” said Shad, with all the finesse of a human wet blanket.
He slapped his twenty down on the counter.
“Now, give me some of everything. As much as this twenty will buy. And, make sure you keep your fingers off the scale.”
For the next few minutes we kept Cindy busy cutting and boxing up our selections. There was no time for flirting as she rang us up one after another. I was next to last to step up to the shiny old cash register. (Charlie sat at the end of the line waiting for Cindy's undivided attention.)
When I leaned in beside the Cashbox to pay, my ears perked up. I was hearing the call. When Cindy hit the SALE key and the ancient register's drawer popped open - the volume soared!
“Wow!” I exclaimed. ”That's some cash register. Where did it come from?”
Cindy gave me an impatient ‘Whatever' look, but she answered my question.
“It's been here forever. I used to come in here and buy fudge when I was little. That Register has always been here.”
“Is the owner around? I'd like to ask him about it.”
“I think he's in his office,” she answered with a tone that suggested the office was somewhere East of Nepal. She was clearly hoping I would let the issue drop.
“Could you get him for me?” I persisted. “Then, maybe you can take care of my friend Charlie, here.”
I knew that she was anxious to help Charlie. Therefore, I made my request in such a way that it encouraged her to get on with the program.
“Just a second,” Cindy whined.
Then she turned and winked at Charlie. “You don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
I could tell she was a little put out as she tromped through the open kitchen and out a door in the back. But, in no time, Cindy returned with an tall grey-haired fellow trailing behind.
He stood over six feet with short graying blonde hair and smiling blue eyes. His full Nordic features were clean shaven and almost feminine. And, he was the first fellow I'd seen in Beaufort with pale skin. In fact, his complexion was so fair I got the impression if he crossed the street without SPF 45 and a hat, he would return red and blistered. He must have been about 60 or 70 or 80. If I had to discribe him with one word, it would be jolly.
“I'm T.E. Chance,” said the old timer. “What can I do you fellows for?”
“Mr. Chance,” I replied. “I'm Jeep Muldoon and these are my friends from Granite Falls.”
The guys all nodded at the store owner.
“I was just admiring this antique cash register of yours. It's a real beauty. Where did it come from?”
Mr. Chance beamed at the gleaming brass treasure.
“It belonged to my Grandfather, Frank Chance, Jr. Grandpa Frank was a pharmacist in Chicago for fifty years. As a youngster, he ran away to enlist in WWI and he returned from the war with just one leg. But, it did not stop him from becoming a pharmacist and starting his own practice. He was a successful businessman. He was a elder in his church. And, he loved and supported his family through World Wars, the Great Depression and a host of personal tragedies. He was, without a doubt, the finest man I ever knew.”
Mr. Chance smiled to himself and barely nodded his head. For a second he was lost in some golden memory from b
efore any of us was born.
I finally interrupted his remembrance. “So, you inherited the register from him?”
“Actually, I started this shop at the time he finally closed his pharmacy in Chicago. Grandpa Frank crated up this old register and shipped it down to North Carolina. In fact, he was coming to Beaufort to help me open my shop. But…”
Mr. Chance paused for a second. Then he took a breath.
“We buried Grandpa Frank on the same day I had scheduled my grand opening.”
Mr. Chance shrugged his shoulders.
“The fudge could wait. But, Grandpa Frank was one of kind.”
We stood silent for a moment. I did not know what to say. But, Mr. Chance finally started talking again.
“It really is a great cash register,” he continued. “I stripped the worn nickel plating myself which left this wonderful brass metal. I replaced the little popup key signs. And, I've kept her clean and shiny ever since. You boys would be surprised how quickly sugar dust can build up in mechanical equipment. Every couple of months I have to blow the insides out with compressed air to keep them from gunking up.”
I spoke again. “Sir, I know it's an odd request. But, can I come around the counter and take a closer look?”
“Be my guest, son. I'm happy to show off the old girl.”
I made my way through the swinging waist high door and walked into the kitchen area. As I approached the register, the call I was hearing got progressively louder.
Standing in front of the brass box, I touched her reverently.
I looked up at Mr. Chance.
“May I?”
“Go ahead.”
With the index finger of my right hand, I hit the NS (NO SALE) key and the cash drawer popped open.
At this point the volume spiked again.
“This wooden drawer, is it original?”
“It sure is,” said Mr. Chance. ”If you hit that catch on the side, it slides out so you can dust out the box. I modified it so you can also lift it up and put big bills underneath and out of sight.”
I hit the catch with my left forefinger and gingerly slide out the wooden drawer. As it came out, I realized the secret the old register was keeping.
