When everything was in order I kissed Mary good-bye and reminded her that I would call once a day without fail. She clung a bit too hard, too long. She was still worried.
Jack was to follow her to Concord and spend a few days there, tentatively to arrive in Plymouth on the third day to reconnoiter with me and the Hatton.
The two cars made tight turns in the harbor parking lot, then glided up to the mainroad, turned, and vanished.
I made ready and cast off.
When I was clear of the harbor, I cut the engine to a crawl and I began to watch my "telltales." These are strips of fuzzy orange yarn tied to my stays. They blow in the wind and indicate its direction. I wanted to be directly into the wind when I raised the main. I winched it up and the boom and gaff flapped spastically back and forth. The jib followed. The sails flip-flapped stupidly until I turned the Hatton downwind a bit, until the telltales were parallel to the leading edge of the sails as I hauled them tight. Then, a change came over Ella Hatton. The sails caught. The boat heeled slightly, and there was a sense of force, pressure, and function. I cut the diesel. In a few seconds our speed picked up because the slow-turning prop had feathered itself, thus decreasing the resistance of the boat in the water. I trimmed the sails still more and adjusted the Hatton's course.
When a sailboat is properly trimmed in a fresh breeze-when the wind direction, hull, and sails are all in perfect symphony-she trembles. It is a stiffening tremble, as in a woman reaching orgasm-a vibrancy of energy and force that tells the experienced helmsman that the boat is performing optimally.
With the engine cut, there was only the sound of rushing water and the creaking of the sheets and blocks. I sat holding the wheel and kept Ella Hatton heading south. Both sheets were fastened in jam cleats. These are cleats that hold the lines by means of toothed cam gears, and can be released immediately in a strong puff of wind. Jam cleats have made solo sailing easier and safer. The Hatton bounced and dipped along; I watched the green-blue water slide past, sending up never-ending streams of bubbles and tiny whirlpools of silver air and water. Farther back the brine swirled white-gray in endless filigrees of foam. There was the hiss and chuckle of moving water. The hiss I find a particularly pleasant sound, the sound of effervescence, like soda water or champagne.
I slipped the loop of heavy line over the longspoke of the wheel and dove into the hatchway long enough to turn on the radio. The dial was on the VHF channel l62.5-the weather frequency. Amidst the buzzing, squelches, and droning came the steady voice of the Weather Bureau. "… winds west, northwest five to eight knots, freshening to ten to twelve knots by late afternoon… barometer thirty point two and steady… seas one to three and rising… forecast fair and windy tonight with partial cloud cover, visibility nine miles… tomorrow windy and cool, with squalls likely in the evening…"
I listened on for the tide report, then ran forward again and switched it off. For the nonce I had nothing to worry about. The Hatton was booming along nicely, and I should have no trouble reaching Dennis by five. I cracked open a beer and kept my eyes on the buoys. Smalley Bar slid past my starboard side. I looked up at Little Beach Hill on Great Island where a pirate tavern had stood in the old days. Had Walter Kincaid fulfilled his dream by discovering a horde of lost treasure? If so did he still have it, or did something grievous befall him? Whether he was alive or dead, Wallace Kinchloe was dead for sure. Someone else was then using his identity. That person appeared to be James Schilling. I kept puzzling over this as I passed Jeremy Point. Lieutenant's Bar was ahead on my port bow. When I reached it, I would be at the foot of Billingsgate Island, where it had all started. A few minutes later I was there. There was no island to be seen though, because it was high tide. Billingsgate lay about three feet under, which meant that I could wade over it. But I stayed clear; the Hatton's centerboard was down, which meant she was drawing five and a half feet. I had read somewhere that Billingsgate wasn't always a sunken island.
There was a village on it up until around 1845 when the inhabitants noticed it was sinking. The tides were creeping higher and higher and gales caused waves to sweep entirely over it-something that had never before happened. So they left. They took their houses with them too-just jacked them up, put them on rollers, and lugged them over to the mainland. And that was that.
Lieutenant's Point slid by on the port side. I glanced at the chart that was weighted down against the wind by three smooth beach rocks. I was leaving Wellfleet Channel, and headed the boat directly toward the ragged hulk of the target ship James Longstreet. The sky was clear cobalt blue, with puffy cotton-ball clouds that scudded across it like the Great White Fleet. These puffy clouds are known as the "cumulus of fair weather," and they are associated with brisk, breezy days with high pressure and cool temperature. Nice days. But they also oftentimes precede violent weather, as the radio foretold for the next day. I took my marine glasses and scanned the shoreline. There was The Breakers, snug by herself on the blufftop. I peered again at the Longstreet. What was a ship named for a Confederate general doing in the New England waters? But then I remembered the planes from Otis Air Force Base had bombed it for years, so it seemed to make some sense… In twenty minutes I was within 1500 yards of the wreck, passing it on my way to Dennis. Two small boats were within the forbidden zone. They were in no danger of being shelled-the target hadn't been used in several years-but they were liable for a stiff fine if caught by the Coast Guard. The circle on the chart intrigued me, with fits tiny half-sunken boat in its center, signifying a wreck. The words Prohibited Area were printed in bright blue letters on the chart. I swung the Hatton's nose a bit more to the west, pointing her smack for the flashing bell buoy five miles a ahead. Another five miles beyond this buoy would take me opposite the harbor of Bamstable. Two smaller harbors, Rock Harbor and Sesuit Harbor, I would skip; they are too small for anything Penelope's size.
The wind held nicely at five to eight knots, more toward eight most of the afternoon. Shortly after four I was standing off Barnstable, my sails down, with my diesel turning slowly.
I approached the place warily because Barnstable is infamous for muddy shoals and rocks. The harbor is long, windy, and narrow, and the channel continually shifts.
A short time later, I was officially in the harbor, but from glancing around, you'd never know it. Low sand dunes gave way to brownish-purple flats, ribbed and rippled from the ebbing tide. I crept my way cautiously forward, keeping one eye on the depth sounder. I cranked up the board. Drawing only two feet, I felt confident that getting all the way in to Blish Point where the marina was should be a piece of cake. It was.,
I dropped anchor out in the far reaches of the harbor where I could enjoy privacy and anonymity. When Ella Hatton stranded herself in the falling tide I unlashed the ten-speed bike from its place on the cabin top and wheeled it ashore. I called in to Mary to say I was safe. Brian Hannon had not been in touch. No news. I asked the harbormaster, the tackle shop owner, and several of the pleasure boat set if they had laid eyes on Penelope. Got nos all around. I pedaled around the waterfront roads, inspecting each and every building on the water big enough to conceal her. Nothing. So much for Barnstable. While it was still low tide, I walked back out to the boat, cooked my supper, and turned in. I opened all the portholes to let the air in. The wind blew softly, bringing with it the faraway cries of gulls and the smell of mudflats and brine.
I awoke momentarily in the middle of the night, feeling Ella Hatton swinging around her cable, the moving water chuckling around her hull.
I left at next high water and was off to Sandwich, the small harbor town that marks the northern terminus of the Cape Cod Canal. Same story there: no Penelope. All during my time at sea I approached every trawler I saw. I was very careful if I saw an old basket hanging in the rigging because that's the sign that they have a net working. I slipped in close and hollered as we slid past each other. Had they seen a green trawler Penelope out of Boston? They all answered no. I kept the radio on all the time, hunting for gossip. The VHF crackled and droned and spit out a constant stream of routine information. The CB bands contained snatches of folksy conversation like: Charlene to Joe and Mary: "Hey, Joey, you got any beer left? We're on a school here and we're and can't leave. Over." Joe and Mary to Charlene: "I'm here. Got two cases left. Can we come over and help you get what's left if we give you one? I'm gone-"