The Boat Thief Page 12

  At the end of the pier I stop, frozen in my tracks. There, in front of me, is a black and white poster stapled to the telephone pole with my photo. Missing . . . it reads, and sure enough, just as Skinny Pete said, there IS a $5,000 reward. Quickly, I pull the hood of my sweatshirt up over my head to cover my face as best I can. I look at the photo staring back at me. My mom and dad must have used my sixth grade photo from last year. Hopefully, I’ve grown enough that I don’t look much like that anymore. I glance around carefully to see if anyone’s watching me.When I’m certain no one is looking, I rip the poster down.

  When I make my way off the pier onto the street, the town’s even smaller than it looked from the dock. Sure enough, there’s the post office right in the middle of Main Street, and across the street is the general store . . . and that’s about it.

  When I enter the post office, there, next to all the FBI’s wanted criminals, is my poster again. Damn! I try not to look at it, or bring attention to myself, because this time, if I rip it down, someone will surely take notice. I keep my head down and walk up to the counter.

  The balding postmaster scrutinizes me, then asks, “Can I help you, young man?”

  Without looking at him I say, “Three stamps, please, and three envelopes.”

  “That will be a dollar twenty five,” he replies, looking at me with narrowed eyes. He knows. He must know I’m the one on the poster. How can he not know? Be calm, I tell myself. Be calm.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out the money I’ve taken from Skinny Pete.

  “That looks like a lot of money for a fellow your age,” the postmaster says with a suspicious eye.

  Damn! How could I be so stupid? What was I doing pulling out all that money in front of him? “Mmmmhh . . .” Having no good answer, I mumble, and put two dollars on the counter. The postmaster slides my change back with the stamps and envelopes. The whole time his eyes never leave me, and he doesn’t say anything.

  Stepping over to the table, I write the addresses on the envelopes, drop them in the mailbox, and get out of there as fast as I can.

  The next thing I need to do while here in town is find some new clothes. The ones I’m wearing are starting to look a little funny on me. Hopefully, the general store has something.

  When I walk into the store, there’s an older woman behind the counter sticking price tags onto some cans of beans that are stacked in a small wooden crate. She squints at me over her wire-rimmed glasses. Her gray hair is cut short and plain. Thin, stick-like arms poke out of her old, worn, green sweater.

  “Can I help you?” she says cautiously, as if I’m here to shoplift.

  “I just need some shirts and a pair of jeans,” I say, trying to sound as though I buy clothes for myself all the time. Actually, my mom’s the one who always buys my clothes, and honestly I have no idea what size I am. I guess I’ll just have to try a few things on.

  “Where is your mom?” she asks, not even hearing what I said.

  I say, “Oh, she has to work today, so she sent me here with some money to buy clothes.” I hold my breath, hoping she believes me.

  “Where does she work?” she asks, as she pushes the crate of canned beans off to the side. Damn! Nosy old lady. Why does she have to keep asking me so many questions?

  I pretend not to hear her. “Do you have any shirts about my size?”

  Now standing in front of the counter with her stick arms tightly crossed, she says, “I know everybody in this town, but I don’t know you.”

  I still don’t answer, and go over to an aisle where there’s a pile of work shirts. I start looking through them. The gray flannel in a “Large” looks like it should fit, so I pick it up, and then a second one, too, in green. I tuck them under my arm.

  “Young man, what is your name?” she says, in a tone that means business.

  I have to think fast. “Jimmy,” I say. “Jimmy Page.” I’m fairly certain she doesn’t have any Led Zeppelin albums.

  “Well, Mister Page, I think you should come back here with your mom. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I smell funny business.”

  I walk past her to the shelf where the jeans are folded and stacked, and start digging through them. I sort of remember my mom saying I was a size 28, so I figure that’s my best bet because Mrs. Funny Business is not going to be any help. Finding a pair, I hold them up to see if they’re going to be long enough because the jeans I’m wearing now are way too short, and my ankles are showing. I look ridiculous.

  “I think these’ll do,” I say to the old bat. “I’d like to buy these.”

  With her arms still folded tightly, she looks down her nose at me, then says, “Then you should send your mom in here to buy them for you.” Then she adds, “My husband owns the gas station, but he is also the police chief for this town. If you don’t leave right this minute I’m going to call him.”

  I’m screwed! Trying to buy some clothes has gone terribly wrong, and now everyone’s going to know I was here. In a town this size, it isn’t going to take them long to figure out I’m the one in the “Missing” poster. Then, before I know it, I’ll be dragged back home to Trent Harbor where the mayor and police chief are both after me. I’m more than just screwed; I’ll be dead by the end of the day.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the wad of cash, peel off a twenty-dollar bill, and try to hand it to her. I look at her. She says nothing.

  She slowly unfolds her arms, raising an eyebrow at me, then reaches for the phone and dials zero. “Hi, Millie,” she says into the receiver. “Can you connect me to Ed? I think he’s over at the gas station this morning.” She waits while Millie, who must be the operator for this little town, connects to Ed, presumably the aforementioned husband-chief-of-police.

  Without a second thought, I slap the twenty dollar bill on the counter, scoop up the two shirts and jeans, and bolt for the door. I’m quick and doubt very much she’ll be able to catch me before I get to the door.

  The front door’s nothing more than a screen door on hinges, so I put my shoulder into it and burst through, never stopping for a second until I’m in the street.

  “Come back here!” she screams in rage. She really has no right to come after me; it’s not like I’m stealing, and the twenty should more than cover the cost of two shirts and a pair of jeans.

  I take off running, but not toward The Sticky Wicket. I don’t want her to know I sailed in because then they’d come looking for me out on Hunter’s Island. But in a tiny town like this, there aren’t too many places I can hide, so the second I know I’m out of her sight, I quickly duck into an old shed along the water that has no lock on it.

  Oh, my God! The smell is so awful that I have to fight back the urge to toss up my breakfast. Of all the bad luck―I’m hidden in a bait shack. With the summer sun beating down, the bait in this shed is the vilest smell I’ve ever experienced. I think the pit of an outhouse actually smells fresher. But I have to stay hidden, no matter what, until I know I’m in the clear. I close my eyes and slowly count to ten, hoping that by the time I reach ten I’ll be used to the stink.

  Inside, there are some small window panes that are so badly covered with God-knows-what that there’s no way to see anything that’s happening outside the shack. Very carefully, I take the sleeve of my shirt and clean a small area so I can at least look out. There she is, the old biddy, standing in the street trying to figure out which direction I ran. She stands there for a minute more then, shaking her head, gives up and goes back to her general store. I hope her husband, Ed, the police chief, will find little interest and not bother to look for me. Besides, I haven’t done anything wrong. I paid for everything and probably had change coming back to me.

  To be safe, I give it an extra five minutes before I poke my head out the door to see if anyone’s looking for me. Man, the fresh air smells good! I don’t think I ever remember air smelling so good. Another minute more in there with that God-awful rotten fish smell and I’m pretty sure it would’ve caused
me some sort of brain damage.

  As far as I can tell I’m in the clear but, instead of walking down Main Street, I find a path down by the water’s edge that should lead me back to the pier where The Sticky Wicket is tied up. I think I’m fairly safe and hope no one will see me. I doubt anyone will notice me, but I’m not so sure they can’t smell me a mile away. I walk along the path carefully, trying hard to look just like any kid playing outside.

  Once back at the pier, all is quiet. Even the lobsterman who was unloading his boat has gone, so I take the path up to the pier and then head down the wooden ramp to the floating dock. The Sticky Wicket is waiting for me.

  At last I’m back on board my boat. Without wasting any time, I hoist the mainsail, then the jib, and untie the dock lines. This is followed by a hard shove. When I sheet in the main, the boat begins to swiftly sail away from the dock. Goodbye Wyman Cove, hope I never have to come here again!

  ***

  The wind’s blowing in a good direction to sail almost a straight line back to Hunter’s Island, and I’m making good time. That’s great, because I want to get as far away from Wyman Cove as I can before anyone starts putting two and two together; that I’m the kid in the posters . . . Fisher Shoemaker.

  My stomach groans loudly, and I suddenly realize that I’m very hungry. It sure would’ve been nice if I didn’t have to leave town in such a hurry. It would’ve been nice to have bought some good food, and maybe even find a restaurant, or a grill, where I could’ve gotten a cheeseburger. Mmmm . . . my mouth’s watering just thinking about a nice, juicy cheeseburger, and maybe some crispy fries on the side. I’d have put just a little ketchup on it and a lot of yellow mustard. If I couldn’t find a cheeseburger it would’ve been really swell to at least buy a few chocolate bars. Instead, I have nothing but more fish waiting for me back on my island. And now that I smell like a rotten fish, I have no appetite to eat fish . . . maybe I’ll never eat it again.

  About four and a half hours later, the breeze is still fresh and pushes the sailboat along nicely. I lost sight of the mainland about an hour ago. The day’s about as nice as it can be, sunny and warm or, at least, warm for Maine, and just the right amount of wind for a great sail. It’s a terrific day to be out on the water―despite the fact that I have no cheeseburger or chocolate bars. Soon, Hunter’s Island appears on the horizon. As I get closer, it looks like it’s slowly growing out of the sea. After my almost-disastrous day in Wyman Cove, it’s going to be good to be back at my island.

  The wind’s still in a good direction to sail right up to the dock. Once again, this is more than I could ever have asked for. Soon the sun will set, and it’ll be dark. I’m thankful that I haven’t had to tack back and forth to make my landing. I’m thankful to be home.

  Once the boat’s tied up, and the sails are dropped, I make sure everything else is secure and put away. Before heading up to the shack, I figure it’ll be a good idea to have a listen to tomorrow’s forecast so I can decide whether I’m going to check traps or not.

  I flip the battery switch and turn on the VHF radio. As always, I flip to channel 16 to listen to some of the boaters’ chit-chat before going to the weather. The radio crackles, then I hear a voice I think I recognize through the static. “Whiskey, Foxtrot, Tango, Tango, one, three, niner; this is Catch of the Day to the Coast Guard station Salem Beach.”

  I stand up quickly, banging my head hard on the low ceiling, which knocks me back down into the bench seat. Man that hurt, but I barely notice the pain . . . on the radio is Skinny Pete.

  “Catch of the Day, this is Coast Guard station Salem Beach; over.”

  “I’d like to report a stolen boat and possibly a runaway child, over.”

  Part III

  Chapter 16

  Men in Blue

  “Catch of the Day, can you repeat that location, please? Over,” comes the crackling voice through the VHF radio.

  “Yeah, man, that’d be Hunter’s Island, just south of the town of Wyman Cove by about eight nautical miles. Over,” says Skinny Pete.

  “Thank you, Catch of the Day. We’ll send a patrol boat there at the first light of day. Over and out.”

  I grab the pad of paper lying on the nav table and hurl it across the little cabin where it hits the forward bulkhead. With my head between my knees, rocking back and forth, I say to no one, “How could you, Pete? How could you!?”

  But I already know the answer; I know why he’s doing this to me.

  I need to get out of here, and I need to do it now.

  I race out of the cabin and up onto the deck, which is now in darkness. While I was down below, the sun set and total darkness swallowed the whole island and the sea. It doesn’t matter. I know where every line leads on this boat, and I can sail it with my eyes closed―which I guess would be almost the same thing.

  In a panic, I quickly raise the mainsail. It’s not until I’m raising the jib that I realize the sail’s not flapping, clanking, or making any kind of sound. No breeze. The wind has shut off completely, and it’s a perfectly still night. I let go of the jib halyard and the sail drops back down to the deck in a heap. I’m going nowhere.

  Standing on the deck, I look out into the black wall of night. I realize that in my panic, had there been wind, I would’ve tried to sail away. In the dark it would’ve been suicide. It’s one thing to sail out of Trent Harbor with a lifetime of local knowledge and lighted buoys, but to sail out of Hunter’s Island I would’ve, without a doubt, crashed on the rocks. The lack of wind probably saved my life.

  With nothing to do but wait until the first gray of dawn, I figure I should at least come up with some sort of plan. One thing about this journey, I’ve learned it’s always helpful to have a plan in my back pocket.

  The chart of the area waters is still rolled up and stowed in one of the cubbyholes, so I carefully spread it out on the nav table. Even though I’ve spent the whole summer on this island, I still don’t know what lies just beyond. So, even though it isn’t much of a plan, I figure it can’t hurt to become familiar with the chart.

  I find Salem Beach Coast Guard station, which is much farther to the east. Using the dividers, I walk off the miles between Salem Beach and Hunter’s Island. It looks to be about thirty miles. Depending on what kind of boat the Coast Guard sends out, it’ll probably cruise at twelve or thirteen knots. I pick up the pad and pencil to do the math. It takes me a couple of tries because math isn’t my strong subject. After I check, and recheck, I’m fairly certain it’ll take them about two and a half hours to make the island. And that’s if they cruise in a straight line.

  Whoa; it turns out math actually is useful for something. I’m going to make sure I pay more attention in school.

  Looking at the chart again, I decide the best plan is simply to sail in whatever direction’s the fastest. And that all depends on the wind. I hope to God it blows anywhere away from Salem Beach.

  Now that math seems useful, I decide to try some more. I figure the fastest the little sailboat can move is probably about five knots so, with a two-and-a-half-hour lead time, that should get me about fourteen miles away before they arrive at the island―if I can actually sail at five knots. I pump a fist into the air. It’ll be pretty hard for them to figure out where I am if I’m fourteen miles in any direction. And they may spend hours searching for me on the island before they realize I’ve fled, so that’ll give me even more of a head start.

  But there are several downsides to consider. What if there’s no wind, or the wind comes from the wrong direction? What if the Coast Guard leaves the station before the light of dawn and arrives at Hunter’s Island before I even have the sails up? My head begins to spin with all the possibilities that can go wrong or right.

  I flip the VHF radio back on and dial in the weather channel. Knowing which way the wind is predicted to blow tomorrow, and how strong, will rule out a lot of the possibilities. The weatherman’s reading off all the meteorological data for today, which, for me, is useless. I could
n’t care less how much rain we’ve had this month. I wait patiently for the forecast and chew at the dry skin on my knuckles.

  Slowly, the VHF begins to fade then goes silent. All the juice in the battery has finally drained. No power. Hopefully, this is not a sneak peek at how things are going to play out for me. Sitting in the silence and dark is almost painful.

  With nothing else to do, I fumble along the dark path up to the shack to collect the few things I have. It doesn’t take long at all, so I go back to the little sailboat and climb into the bunk.

  As hard as I try, there’ll be no sleep for me tonight. There are just too many things racing through my head.

  * * *

  Last night was about the longest night I can remember. If I slept, I sure don’t remember doing so. But now the darkness begins to give way to dawn. Gray shadows appear very slowly across the water as I sit in the cockpit. I’ve been waiting hours for a little daylight to give shape to my surroundings. It feels like I’ve been sitting here for a week, yet there’s nothing I can do but keep waiting. There is, however, a little luck on my side because the wind began to fill in about a half hour ago, and even though I can’t see it on the water, the breeze on my face feels like it might be a good direction for an escape.

  Gray shadows lighten the horizon and, eventually, I can make out rocks in the water and the outline of a few distant islands. It’s time to go! Raising the main and jib only takes me a moment. I untie the sailboat from the dock, sheet in the sails, and begin to glide silently away from the dock. There’s a little part of me that’s going to miss Hunter’s Island. It was hard, but I’ve made it my home, and I did it all on my own. I’m confident that if I can make a home out of this place, I can do almost anything I set my mind to.

  When the sun peeks over the horizon, the wind freshens to almost perfect conditions. The boat heels over nicely, humming along with spray coming off the bow. The sails are trim and the boat’s leaving a solid wake behind her. My hair, which has now grown long over the summer, blows out of control. This is perfect; the conditions are exactly what I need. A smile stretches across my face.