Water Lessons (37 page)

"Over there!" Jack yelled over the whirr of the small Evinrude. He pointed toward the small building with the dark green asphalt roof and sided with wooden shingles. "That's the shop!"

They gained bit by bit, and then slowed. Jim weaved in and out of the anchored boats like a serpent. Soon they reached the docks. A few spectators, among them a couple with their two teenage sons, stood just feet away. Jack knotted the dinghy onto a cleat, stepped onto the dock, and nodded at them.

"That's a real sight out there," the father said. He was a tall, thin man with longish snow-white hair. Like the others, he was dressed in boating gear.

"Thanks," Jack said. "It is something else. My friend's boat."

"Your friend here?" the man said, pointing with interest at Jim.

Jim smiled and shook his head. "The owner's out there."

"That's a Herreshoff, isn't it?" the woman said, a hand held over her eyes to shield her vision from the growing sunlight. She was a petite blonde, somewhat sun-weathered, with an intelligent expression.

"You guessed right," Jim said. "One of the last tern schooners the brothers built. Launched in 1912."

"He get that baby around here?" the man said.

"It was purchased in Casco Bay. We just overhauled her in Osterville. Actually it's a he. The
John Paul Jones
!"

"Wow," one of the teens said.

"Y'all take care," Jim said, waving. "Gotta grab us some provisions for the road." He turned to Jack. "Or for the
sea-road
, as the great poet in
Beowulf
calls the ocean."

"Now I seem to recall that term," Jack said. "Mrs. Hartley's English class at Groton."

"Funny how the nautical history aficionados come out of the woodwork when that boat's in the water," Jim said as they walked down the dock.

"I could probably handle
one
more encounter," Jack said. "And no more."

Inside the shop, an old man sat behind the counter on a worn brown leather chair. He had a ruddy face cross-hatched with wrinkles and eyes so very squinty Jim could not even discern the color of their corneas. A small pair of spectacles rested at the tip of his red nose. His grey beard hung at least five inches long. A yachting cap crowned his head. Jim guessed it had once been black before sunlight or washing faded it to a dull gray. The old man shot them a flinty glance over his newspaper, but uttered no greeting.

"Mornin', sir," Jim said.

The old man nodded and returned to his paper.

Jim turned right toward the refrigerated goods. On his way back to the counter with a pint of Borden's half-and-half, he grabbed a
Boston Globe
.

Jack stood next to the counter beside the magazine rack. "I thought we were going to have a nice rain-free weekend," Jack said, "but alas, we got rained out a bit here in the harbor last night."

"Ah hah," the old man said. After a brief pause, he put down his paper and looked hard at Jack. "You men going out on the water this morning?"

"In a few minutes, yes," Jack said.

"It's unseasonably hot and humid out. Weather seems like it's actin' up a bunch. Cool, then warm, then temperate, then hot and rainy for some of the Figawi. Then warm and a bit rainy yesterday and last night. Strange weather, I tell ya."

Jim immediately turned from Jack to the old man. Then he was comforted to catch a glimmer of humor in the old man's eyes.

"I agree," Jack said. He seemed amused the man had opened up. "It is uncommon for this time of year, isn't it?"

"But it should be warm for you today."

Jim placed the newspaper and the cream on the counter. "Any way we can get a large bag of ice, too?"

"Ice box is unlocked just outside the door."

The old man took Jim's cash and banged a few keys on the register. He fished out some change and handed it to Jim. He then bagged the cream and paper and handed it to Jim with the faintest grin.

"You have a good day, sir," Jim said as he and Jack departed.

The door swung shut. Jim handed the paper bag to Jack and then pulled a bag of ice from the box outside. They headed back to the dock.

"NECN's forecast says no chance of rain today or tomorrow, you know," Jim said.

"That crusty old codger just probably wants to put in his two cents," Jack said.

A few people lingered on another wing of the dock, staring at the schooner.

"No rest for the
John Paul Jones
," Jim said. He stepped into the dinghy, sat on the rear bench and gunned up the Evinrude. Jack sat down on the front bench, and unknotted the rope from the cleat. They slowly spun around, and then were off toward the schooner.

For a moment, Jim studied his friend's face, angled sideways at some unknown object. At parties, Jack seemed lighthearted, even carefree. Yet outside of such occasions, he seemed troubled, weighed down by unknown worries and forces. Even now as he sat in the dinghy, Jack seemed incapable of looking at something without soon allowing his gaze to drift pensively, worriedly downward, with knitted brows. Now Jack stared hard at the water flitting past the bow.

Here was a man with all the moxie and endurance required to found and lead a successful software company. But it was indisputable. His relationship with Natasha weakened him.

Jim killed the motor. The dinghy coasted the few yards toward the stern of the schooner. Jack crouched, his arm outstretched, ready to grab the ladder. He deftly scampered up the ladder, even with one of his hands gripping the plastic bag of ice. Jim followed just a moment behind, one hand clutching the cords and paper bag.

After they raised the dinghy, they saw that the boys and lieutenants had assembled on the foredeck, dressed in their life vests. All the boys sat on the deck. Walter stood before them, holding one hand aloft, illustrating a point. Jim and Jack strolled toward them in silence.

"Jim and Jack," Walter said. "Glad to see you. All is well?"

Jim gave two thumbs up.

"You guys join me by the cockpit in a minute. But first, I need some young backs and strong arms! Lieutenant McGreevey, anchors aweigh!"

This time, Jim could not feel the vessel drift. "No wind?" he called.

"Affirmative," Walter said. "Big Chief is down in the engine room and is gonna gun us outta here. We still will raise sails, however. Bill, go down and tell him."

Bill went for the hatch.

"Now, at my command, if you four could raise the foremast sail. Lieutenants Ward, Murphy! Scoresby and Spaulding! Resume your mast positions. At my command, raise sails… go!"

A flurry of halyard-pulling erupted on deck. Each man and boy pulled hand-over-hand as the sails wound their way up the three towering wooden masts.

"Now, tie down!" Walter bellowed. "Tie down and knot 'em, lieutenants!"

Reverend Ward tied down and knotted the shroud of the mainmast. Tim Murphy did the same on the mizzenmast. Jim and Jack bowlined the shroud onto the foremast's large cleat.

All of the men and boys looked up at the sails. They were in place, just without a trace of wind. How fickle was Mother Nature, Jim thought. And how mysterious and cruel.

He glanced at the Commodore. The old man stared directly at him, his arms at his sides. He smiled a proud, worldly-wise smile, a narrowing and twinkling of eyes and a faint grin without the showing of teeth. He placed the pipe in his mouth. A dark grey plume rose right over his right ear and past the bill of his dark blue baseball cap that read "NAVY."

The twin diesel motors surely were at work. The ship drifted forward, turning and pulling away. A great cheer shot from the nearest dock, where spectators still remained, many of them waving. Minutes later, the
John Paul Jones
encountered decent winds. They snagged the sails which slowly, steadily billowed open and wide. A collective sigh rose from the crew. The
John Paul Jones
was once again making good time.

Minutes later, they moved south at a speed of about fifteen knots. As if bidding their farewell, a flock of seagulls dived, turned, climbed, and circled the schooner as it progressed farther from shore.

Inside the cockpit, the Commodore puffed away at his pipe. Jim stood beside him, steering. Jack rested a few feet away on the teak bench, lost in thought. At least he looked in better spirits.

On the foredeck, the Reverend and Tim and their charge of six boys leaned against the bow's rail, studying the few boats on the horizon. After twenty minutes passed, Walter ordered Jim to turn the wheel, to steer directly eastward, parallel to the dune-and-grass coast of the Cape Cod National Seashore Ponds Preserve.

"This," Walter said, "aims us directly out into the Atlantic."

Jim drew in a deep breath and held it, imagining the schooner capsizing in a great storm, hundreds of miles from land.

Following thirty minutes on this course, the old man gave the order to tack directly northward along the Preserve's coast toward the Cape's tip at Provincetown. The ship listed slightly to port as it righted its course.

A great cheer burst from several of the boys at the bow. Jim heard and felt the mighty push of the wind, which further filled the sails.

Smiling at the vessel's progress, Jim turned to Walter. "I know the plan's to anchor outside Truro, but at this rate, hell, we may even be west of Provincetown by twilight!"

"Ah, you may very well be right, sir," the old man said, his eyes twinkling with delight. "We are making way, for sure." Walter was clearly elated at their good fortune. Their only mishap had been last night's rain.

Jack excused himself, strolled toward the bow, his hands buried in the pockets of his linen pants.

"I wonder," Jim said, "if our friend's feigning a look of happy-go-lucky comfort there."

"We both know what's weighin' down the guy, don't we?" the old man said, and turned a pair of gloomy eyes toward Jim.

"I'd say we do," Jim said. "Maybe this trip will do him some good."

"Spaulding's son has been mopin' around all hangdog like that many a time in the last few months," Walter said, shaking his head and closing his eyes. He made a hissing sound. "The man needs to free himself of that virago."

Jim let slip a laugh, just for a second, and stifled it by contorting his mouth.

"Ah, look at this day, son. Look at this day, will ya?" Walter said, pulling the zip locked bag of tobacco from his coat pocket.

"It's some beautiful out there. We've been blessed today. Just a few clouds, much sunshine, decent wind."

Walter proceeded to pack the bowl. With one strike of a match, and his other hand shielding the bowl, he lit the pipe. "We have, son. We have," the old man said.

They stared through the square front window of the cockpit. Nearly everything beyond was some marvelous shade of blue, the frolicking waves of dark blue and the sky of royal blue, interrupted only by the scarcest number of grayish-white clouds in the distance.

"We've both been blessed in another way," Walter said, looking over at him. "We're both blessed to be here, to be breathing. I know you were having a nightmare last night in your cabin. I could hear it. And I know why. I lived it, Jimmy, for decades. Still am. We carry guilt—we survived while someone we cared about passed on right in front of us, in a catastrophe. And war is always a catastrophe.

"I know you had Freddy. Many of my men died under my watch. I'll tell you about one. Chester Wilkins, from Gloucester. Twenty years young, and his forebears had been sailors for centuries. He served alongside Carrington's brother as a gunner. Used to have panic attacks sometimes when we were close to enemy boats and sometimes planes.
 

"One day he came to me and said he'd had enough. It was the last day of his tour. Wanted to go home. I persuaded him to enlist for another tour, as he hadn't conquered his fear. Two days later, our tin can hit a mine my flotilla had missed. He screamed on impact. It was honestly more like a shriek. A squeal. Wilkins lost both of his legs and an eye and it ripped his guts to shreds. Took him two days to pass. But not after I visited him and saw that hazel eye staring at me, expressionless. Son, I have seen that eye stare me down for decades now…"

Jim said nothing, just watched Walter as he focused his gaze out past the bow into the horizon.

CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

At quarter past noon the pipe fell from Walter's lips and clattered across the finished floorboards of the cockpit. The old man bared his teeth like an angry wolf and gripped the wheel, as if the ship was about to plummet off the edge of a waterfall.

"
God save us all. Oh, the children!
" Walter blurted in a half-whisper, half-gasp.

"Walter, what is it?" Jim said. He had never seen the old man in such a way. Perhaps, in his old age, he was overreacting.

"
White squall. Look at those scuds. We may be done for,
" Walter stammered in the same tone. He reached over and yanked the brass shaft from where it was attached to the cockpit wall and banged over and over at the brass bell.

The lieutenants and boys, who had been lunching in the mess room, surfaced on deck. With several frantic waves of his hand, Walter ordered all on deck to hurry to the cockpit. "All hands, get over here! Get in here, all of you! Sit down on the floor by the wheel! Hurry!"

"Shouldn't I batten down the main hatch?" Jim shouted.

"No," Walter thundered. "Stick with me, son, right here."

Jim stood there feeling helpless, his hands at his sides, as he felt the fire grow within his belly. Yet he saw nothing on the horizon, or in the water before them, save a cluster of low-hanging clouds and something he had never seen: a strange, large patch of white-capped waves, of broken water.

Tales of white squalls, accounts of tornado-like storms that struck on lakes and oceans, without warning and often in good weather, filled Jim's mind. He had watched a film on the subject years back.

The old man still bashed the brass bell when the men and boys clustered around them at the cockpit's entrance.

Walter boomed, "Everyone, listen to me! It's an emergency! All lieutenants, secure the lifejackets of the boys in your charge. And then secure your own and get on the floor in this cockpit. We're heading into a squall. We're almost in it!"