I struck out all the way up the coast. The day was hot and sticky and I was under power part of the time. I didn't want to be late for my meeting with Jack up in Plymouth. Toward late afternoon it cooled a bit and the breeze freshened. I cut the engine and was making four knots on a broad reach with the board cranked halfway up. It got darker and darker, and the water had an oily roll to it. Bad weather coming.
I was standing off Plymouth when it got really dark, and scary. There was an electric feeling in the air of enormous pressure… of tremendous energy about to be released. The gulls were gone, either inland or in safe water, huddled in small rafts of bobbing birds. The wind got downright chilly. I dove below and got a Windbreaker, and scanned ahead for the four-second flash off Gurnet Point. It stood out clearly in the falling light. As I drew nearer, I would look for the giant Miles Standish monument. But for now it was obscured by the gathering clouds. A cold tickle of rain pelted me, The wind stiffened still more; the telltales stood out straight from the stays. Ella Hatton's blunt, wide nose was heaved up again and again, only to crash down with wide falls of powder-white foam shooting outward before me. But it was mostly a following sea that pushed from behind on her broad transom, giving us a hundred miniature sleigh rides on the crest of breaking waves. This kind of water lifts the whole boat in the euphoric way. Then there is the rush of speed on the wave's peak and at this instant, a giddy rooster-dance of wobbly falling, a shuddering uncertainty of going into the trough… You are going fast then, and it feels great. But if the water is big enough, and the troughs deep enough, you can bury your bow and pitchpole right into solid. water. That does not feel great. Or you can broach in the trough and yaw broadside to all the water coming down on top of you.
The sea wasn't that high. Not yet. But it was doing its damndest working on it. While there was still time I dropped the main and gathered it into the wide cockpit as best I could. Then I started the Westerbeke and revved it up pretty high to give me a lot of headway.
I was doing seven knots. The dory was becoming a real problem. In the following sea it had caught up with us. Twice it shot forward on the curl of a breaker and almost rammed us. Fortunately, it swung over to our port side and came around beside the Hatton. I watched it warily. The last thing I needed, sailing in dirty weather alone, was a guided missile in dory form leaping toward my kidneys as I tried to navigate.
A sharp right at Duxbury Light led up a wide and shallow channel called the Cowyard. This was a good anchorage according to my marine atlas. A right jog led up another channel to the town of North Plymouth, a rather industrial place with a big commercial pier maintained by a cordage company.
At the light I headed to starboard, right smack for the Miles Standish Monument on the top of Captain's Hill. I flipped on the depth sounder as I crept into the Cowyard, finally cutting the engine when it read six feet. The Hatton oozed along in a stall, and I dropped the big bow anchor over the side with its twenty-foot length of chain, followed by a much longer length of mooring line. When the flukes bit into the sand the line around the bitt squealed and groaned. Then I drew the line in and made it fast. I threw out a smaller anchor over the stern and did likewise with it. The boat faced the channel flow, so currents wouldn't build up on her broadsides.
Meanwhile the untended jib had been flipping and flapping about, and I let it down and hauled it in. Though I was shivering now, and soaked to the skin, I leaned over in the pelting rain and unhooked it from the forestay and stuffed it down the forehatch. It was growing darker and colder by the second. Thunder rolled up from the south, and the faint glimmerings of lightning flickered there. The rain was sincere now, in earnest you might say, and sang down on the deck like a swarm of locusts: a high wavering hiss. I longed for dry clothes and the warmth of the cabin, but I had to raise the anchor light and bring in the dory first. Then I rigged the "gizmo," a big tarp that fits over the boom and fastens down on each side of the cockpit. It resembles a big pup tent, and provides shelter over a great portion of the boat.
After rigging this contraption I was so cold and miserable I regretted the whole journey. I squished along the foredeck in my soaking Topsiders and rechecked the anchor lines and the anchor light. At the stern, I pulled in the dory's tow line and made her fast at my back door. Then I dove under the hatch and shed the wet clothes. I was shaking so much I could hardly light the lamps, but managed four times to dip the lighted kitchen match into the brass slot and see the wicks come aglow. Then I placed the glass chimneys back on and adjusted the flames. The four lamps lighted the small cabin I space with golden light. I knew the oil lamps would throw off a fair amount of heat as well as save my batteries. But as the wind picked up and the temperature dropped still more, I knew the night would be raw indeed. I had snuggled into a pair of jeans, an undershirt, and a chamois-cloth shirt. But I was still cold, and so lighted the tiny coal-fired heater near the galley sink. I placed the special coal briquettes in the slotted grate over two pieces of well-twisted newspaper, to which I set fire. A few seconds after closing the small door on the firebox a powerful-though miniature-draft was created in the stack, thus igniting the coal as tobacco is set glowing in a briar pipe. Through the mica glass I could see the cozy flicker of the fire sweep across the coals like small waves… cascades of red and yellow: hot and hotter.
I hopped up and drew back the companionway. It was perfect hell outside. It was raining almost sideways, and though Ella Hatton rode remarkably level in the Cowyard anchorage, the water gnashed angrily at her hull. The anchor light was defiantly aflicker, though I doubt I would have braved the weather to attend to it if it weren't. I saw the tiny conical chimney top spouting its proud plume of smoke, like the Tin Woodsman blowing smoke rings.
The wind howled and pelted rain. I dove back below and slid the hatch closed. For ventilation, I kept part of the companionway shutters open and the forward porthole ajar. There was a hiss and a demonic crack, and blue-white light came shooting in beams through the portholes. A terrific thunderclap followed, and the thump thump thump of steady strong water against the Hatton's glass hull increased.
Although the thought of dinner haunted me, I decided to skip the meal altogether. True, I could have filled my tummy with all kinds of canned and cellophane-packed edibles and perhaps some cold glunk. But why? It would be a miserable experience. But a stiff Scotch did sound nice. I fetched a king-sized tumbler and poured a moderate-sized dollop. I up-ended the bottle of Johnny Walker Red in the glass and counted to seven. I added soda, no ice since I was half frozen, and watched the mixture make little swirly lines and patterns in the glass… like heat waves going in circles. Yummy.
I lay back in the bunk on the starboard side. A porthole was directly to my right. Above and behind me to the left was the companionway. Wicked sounds scudded down through it. Sounds of mad water and storm. And then I became fully conscious of the building din in my ears: the crashing of the rain upon the cabin top and decks. It roared and pounded. It ran and whispered in mounting rivulets along the coaming and through the scuppers.