Water Lessons (18 page)

"Nah," Jim said, "there's no rest around those little ones. They'll keep you on your toes."

"
That
they will," Reverend said in his baritone. "How are you today, Jim? These kids too much for you?"

"Ready to throw in the towel?" Tim said in a jeering tone.

"Not for the world. They've been great so far. No complaining, no fights. I bet they love it up there with the Commodore. I know they're itching to learn, from all their questions."

"Just hope one don't go overboard!" Tim laughed. "Glad we got those vests on 'em!"

Jim bit his lip.

The Reverend said, "I wouldn't let the boys set foot on deck without them."

"See that humpback whale?" Tim hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

"Amazing," Jim said.

"We won't be seeing a sperm whale or a blue whale. They're dadgum near driven to extinction," the Reverend said.

"'Dadgum? Bob's Bistro?" Jim said. "You and I are cut from the same cloth, Reverend. Never thought I'd hear 'dadgum' again! I've come home."

Jim waded into a lengthy discussion of steering, seamanship, and the history and practice of navigation. During their talk, much time was spent alternating at the wheel.

Walter appeared. "Shall we have a little peek at the old GPS?" He glanced at the screen attached to the dashboard.

Jim looked past the old man and glimpsed Jack with the boys, holding up a hand to illustrate some point.

"Yes, sir!" the Reverend said. "After all, we don't know where Jim's
really
taking us."

"To the end of the world, off the edge, and into the abyss," Jim said. "Or all the way to Bermuda."

Walter placed his hand on the wheel. "Lemme take her a while. You've done what I've asked. But now I've gotta turn this baby around. We've headed just far enough out into the North Atlantic. Now for the final treat of the day."

Jim knew he should feel excitement but instead the worry built within his breast. The vessel was so very far out from shore into the sea. But even greater—Jim feared that the others would see this trepidation.
 

"Looking forward to it," Jim said, forcing a broad smile. If only he could maintain his grit of the last few months…

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

With the
Undaunted
moored at the visitors' dock and her life vests stowed away and hatches locked, the brave new world of Lovells Island was now—for the boys of Mount Zion and St. Brendan's—ripe for exploring. Jim and Walter led the train of boys off the deck and down the dock, shoreward. Jack and the chaperones brought up the rear.

They approached the visitors' center. Walter turned and asked Jim to watch over the group while he went inside the wooden-shingled shack to claim his reservation for the campsite.
 

"Friends," Jim said, raising his arm. "For those who might feel a little seasick, I
am
the bearer of good news:
at least
we're on dry land until tomorrow morning. We'll pitch tents after Walter locks down the campsite. Then maybe we can go exploring!"

A great cheer burst from the crowd, a fusion of the boys' glee and the adults' mock-elation.

The visitors' center door burst open. The Commodore waved a map in the air, an energetic grin spread across his face. "All right, friends," he boomed. "Follow me! I won't getcha lost."

Jim and the party pivoted and pursued the lively old man. Walter led them down a shell path through the two-feet-tall seagrass on the long drumlin bluff above the seashore. To their right was a wall of dunes partially obscured by a forest of seagrass. Just beyond lay a stretch of sand, seagrass, and granite boulders. Next was a narrow strand of shells and sand. Finally there was the ocean beyond, with its symphony of choppy blue-green waves kissing a cloudless royal blue sky. Gulls circled in various congregations within this vast expanse. Crowning this scene lay an island far off on the horizon.

To the left of the path, a wooded copse thick with black cherry, gray birch, and apple trees surrounded a small cranberry bog, dark and still as obsidian. On its surface floated patches of green water lilies with their white flowers. Insects faintly buzzed in the thicket to Walter's left. To his right were the sounds of the squawking gulls and the crash of waves.

"Where are we
going
?" Lance said. Surely the boy was sweating profusely under that Bruins jersey and hoping for a break, a dip in the ocean.

"We're going to an unknown underground bunker controlled by the Irish mob," Jim said.

Tim exploded in a chuckling fit.

"Coool!" Scott said.

"Man, I don't know if that's mah cup o' tea," Dwayne's voice wavered, sounding uneasy.

"They won't take too kindly to you guys!" Scott said.

"Cut that out, this minute!" Tim thundered, his Boston accent flying thick and fast, his finger wagging at his charge.

"Hmph! Shuddup, fool," LaRon stopped and turned toward Scott.

The line halted. LaRon's face grew fierce as he puffed out his chest. "They wouldn't know what they comin' up against. We'd put a hurt on dem chumps reeaal fast."

Reverend Ward and Walter lurched toward LaRon. Each clamped a cautionary hand on his shoulder and ordered him to relax. Tim Murphy did the same with Scott, and Jack and Jim stepped in front of Lance and Seamus.

"Hey!" the old man roared, raising a clenched fist with an extended index finger. Walter's eyes bulged, his face flushed crimson with fury. To add to his unnerving look, the Commodore had now drawn his lips back like a growling dog.

"I said,
hey!
" the old man boomed. "I better not hear any more of that garbage. We set off on this undertaking for one reason, and that kind of mean talk to each other isn't it!"

Several seconds of the starkest silence passed. The old man switched his glaring stare from LaRon to Scott as if attempting to brand his order and threatening expression into their memory. Jim turned to Reverend Ward, who smiled at the old man.

"That's it, boys," Reverend Ward said. "Y'all better do what Mr. Henretty says. Knock it off with those comments. We're better than that."

"We
can
be," Dwayne said in a feeble voice.

"Exactly. We
can
." The Reverend pointed his index finger in the air. "We do have the power not to stoop to those levels. Exercise that power and lay off that stuff. Let's have some fun."

"Couldn't have said it better." Walter winked at the Reverend. "Now, let's be on our way, shall we?" The old man marched down the path, his military past still evident in his gait.

The line wended around some crumbling concrete ruins and granite boulders. Alongside the trail lay more bogs and copses of pines, oaks, and cherries as before, with thick masses of brambles. Then the path forked.

"We'll take the route to the left. The road less travelled!" Walter marched up the left course and its slight incline into the woods. The path leveled out. The ground, coated with pine straw, was completely clear of bushes and brambles. Ahead, someone had recently burned a small campfire.

"Ah hah! Gents, we have arrived at our proper destination!" Walter said. "Now if all we grown-ups can get these healthy young upstarts to help us set up camp, we'll be doing just fine."

For the next twenty minutes they assembled the six tents. Jim asked Jack to help him find kindling and any larger pieces of wood. Bit by bit, they stacked the wood in a large pile just outside the circle of tents. Jim and Jack then joined the others in assembling the final tent, finishing just as the sun started to vanish. Tim and the St. Brendan's boys occupied two tents. Beside those tents stood the tent for Jim and the Commodore. Adjacent to this tent stood the two tents for the Reverend and the Mount Zion group. Next was Jack's tent.

After Jim and Walter prepared the fire, the boys roasted franks on long sticks they had fashioned. Jim took this opportunity to take Walter aside.

"Commodore, a favor," Jim half-whispered. "Can I make a quick phone call while y'all do the hot dogs? Got to call your daughter, after all. My nightly call, you know?"

"Oh, boy!" Walter laughed. "You mean you haven't called Miss Maureen today? You better be dialing your phone in the next few
seconds
or you'll be in deep, deep trouble, son!"

Jim walked back down the path toward the ocean. When he was out of earshot, he dug into his shorts' pocket for his phone.

A half-irritated, half-exhausted voice answered. "Jim, what's new?" More of a monotone, declarative line than a question.

"Maureen, hey, how are you, sweetie?"

"Jim, don't call me
baby
or
sweetie
. I've told you before."

"Sorry, I forget. Sorry, I—"

"I'm not doing so great, actually." A pause.

"Maureen, what's the matter? Can I help?"

Another pause.

Jim felt a tingling heat on his forehead and the nape of his neck.

"Maybe, I guess. Ah… I don't know how to begin…"

"Is it something I did?"

"It's not really your fault. I just… it's just been so
difficult
lately. You moved away. I encouraged you to go into the boat business with Dad. Now I don't have you as close and it's just hit me lately. But don't worry, I'll deal with it. Are we still on for tomorrow?"

"Of course we are."

"Good. So I take it you're out now on one of the Harbor Islands for the night?"

"Lovells Island. Charming place."

"Dad used to take Mom and me there sometimes, years ago. We'd sail up from the Cape for a few days, or we'd charter a boat from Boston like you guys just did. You should see George's Island. You'd like it."

"I really want to make it better. Sorry you're going through all this. I know you care about me. You just wanted me to find my niche by helping me get into this boat business and all. I'm taking you out tomorrow. We'll talk about it, all right?"

"Don't worry about me."

"You're strong. I have to return to the campsite now. It's getting dark and I don't have a flashlight with me. Well, least there aren't copperheads and water moccasins this far north."

"Call me when you guys dock tomorrow."

"Will do. I love you, Maureen."

"Love you, too," she mumbled. The three words came strangely, so very fast that they blended into one word.

Then the line clicked. Their talk had not even lasted two minutes.
 

He trudged back up the trail, his back to the ocean. Once again, there came the old familiar sound of the crashing waves and that sharp yet welcome seaweed-and-brine scent of the north Atlantic coast.
 

Jim softly exhaled his despair as he entered the woods. Through the near-complete darkness and the web of tree trunks and brush, the fire roared, perhaps three feet high. The crew encircled it, sitting in their camping chairs and on a few scattered logs, roasting their franks.

They greeted Jim as he appeared at the clearing's edge. He took his seat in a chair between Jack and Walter. When their glances met, the old man studied his face closely, a hint of solemnity and concern about the eyes.
 

Jim looked at his feet, then at the glowing fire. The boys were laughing at something puerile and lighthearted but he was outside of their joy, something that seemed now foreign to him.

He wondered why he now felt downcast. What was it within him? It was mostly Maureen's love, or the lack of love, rather, that he felt from her—despite how much he loved her.
 

But there was something else. He had achieved so much since that day in mid-September, when he arrived in the Manchester, New Hampshire, airport. He had found more success than ever before in his youth.

But he had become, in a sense, a different person in a far-flung land. And that new person was not loved, at least not romantically. He was truly alone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The
Undaunted
glided forward on her course, her sleek prow surging its way through the strengthening morning light. The gulls soared and circled, diving about her masts and taut sails. His hands grasping the wheel, Jim inhaled the salt air deeply into his lungs and closed his eyes, as if to draw the moment into his memory forever.

"Attaboy, son," the old yet robust voice cheered at his side.

Jim opened his eyes.

The Commodore grinned. "Relish it. This moment's one of those times that keeps a sailor coming back for more—for all those who love sails and the sea and that 'open road' feeling. Not the open road, rather, but the 'whale-road', as the ancient Vikings called it. And out here, a guy's more connected with nature than on any road trip."

Jim grunted. He was at such peace that he found himself reluctant to speak.

"I wanted to show ya something," the old man said. "See that island back there? The one just near Lovells, where we camped? Know what that is? Or was?"

Jim looked past Walter, who pointed toward the greenish, wall-encircled mass fading into the horizon.

"I've heard bits and pieces. George's Island, isn't it?"

"What's its claim to fame, my boy? You should know this one. Right up your alley."

"It's the one with a fort, right? And a prison? Fort Warren."

"Indeed." Walter lifted his eyebrows to emphasize the gravity of the subject, or to further build suspense.

"That island was first used by the English colonists as farmland. Around 1850, the navy built a fort there, which would have been one of the best in our land. It just ended up being technologically obsolete upon completion. See, all the new ironclads and high-powered artillery rendered it ineffective as a major fort. So it became a military training ground. Federal soldiers at the start of the Civil War trained and drilled there. The Second Infantry, while revamping the parade ground there, wrote the lyrics to 'John Brown's Body.' You remember, boy, the great marching hymn of the North? Well, at one point in the war, the fort became a prison. It was noted for the humane treatment of its prisoners: three thousand of 'em if you added 'em up over the years. Among them were some notables. You know of Alexander Hamilton Stephens?"