Twilight
I
When the atmosphere hangs heavy and still out on the water, the only relief to be found comes from the breeze provided by a vessel in motion. Her hull cleaved a path through the thick waters of the Chesapeake Bay, leaving behind a boiling wake that dissolved into the vast empty blackness of the pre-dawn. In the cabin, one work-beaten hand rested gently on the helm to guide the Anna Mae, while the other turned on a topside spotlight that directed a beam out ahead, probing for what lay hidden in the recesses of the darkness. The dim dashboard panel lights vaguely defined the silhouette of Jack Parks, as observed from the back deck where his son Jimmy waited with a gaff in hand.
Jack looked over his shoulder and shouted something that was lost to the noise of the engines. The content of what he said was not important; shouting to the back deck before arrival was just part of the routine, how the job was performed.
Despite how his dad thought things should be done, Jimmy took his cues from what happened around him. When he heard the engines throttle down, he threw the last of his cigarette over the side, turned on the work lights, and took up his station just next to the cap rail behind the cabin, his gaff extended outboard and at the ready.
With the engines cut back into neutral, the vessel carried onward at a diminishing pace. Just within the perimeter of the deck light visibility, a small buoy—white with three stripes of blue—emerged from the darkness. From Jimmy’s perspective, the boat seemed to be standing still as the buoy timidly crept up to him. As soon as it was within reach, he lunged out at it with the gaff, entering the water just inches from its side and hooking the slender nylon sash cord that held the buoy fast to its anchored position.
He pulled the buoy to the vessel side and then up and out of the water to haul up its load waiting below. Ordinarily, the physical task of hauling was performed by a small electric-hydraulic winch, but things had been slow lately, and the money just wasn’t available to have the broken unit fixed. Jimmy wouldn’t have minded the labor so much if this was going to be the only work he had to do, but even as he was pulling up on the heavy load, he mapped out in his mind everything he had scheduled. All in all, it was shaping up to be a very full day. As soon as the boat profits could allow it, he’d just pitch out the old winch and buy a new one. He knew it would chafe his dad not to just rebuild the old one; his father simply did not share the belief that there can be hidden costs to saving money—like fixing something that is only going to continue to reliably break down again and again.
The wet, mossy line passed through Jimmy’s reaching grasps and laid down into large, neat coils off to his side, along the edge of the deck. The mesh wire of the crab trap broke the water surface, carrying with it detritus from the ancient muddy bottom of the bay. As soon as it broke free of the water, its weight increased with the absence of buoyancy, and the sudden strain of this load began to register in Jimmy’s lower back. Jack had often come out of the cabin to offer his help, but Jimmy would have none of it. It wasn’t so much out of the love he felt for the old man; he would just write it off to a matter of giving the captain his due and dismiss him back into the cabin.
In one seemingly endless movement, Jimmy turned and emptied the trap occupants onto the sorting table, re-baited the trap, and then tossed it, along with its coil of line and buoy, back out into the water. The engine throttled back up to its normal running speed, and the boat maneuvered onto a new course for the next trap that lay waiting not very far away.
During the run over to the next location, Jimmy sorted through the tangle of furious blue crabs on the table. The little ones were thrown back into the bay to grow up a bit before they would be harvested at legal size, and the rest were tossed into bushel baskets, grouped according to gender and size. Culling through the crabs did not require any great effort or intelligence—just manual dexterity and heavy gloves. Sometimes the process would be slowed by a particularly vengeful crab latching onto the hide of a rubber glove, but vigorous shaking was usually sufficient in bringing the conflict to a quick resolution. As if they knew their fate, some brave ones would try to make a break for it by going over the wall of the sorting table in hopes of finding a safe refuge somewhere about the deck, only to be rounded up after the culling at the table was complete and placed into the final incarceration of their appropriate bushel baskets.
The engines throttled down again as they made their next approach. Jimmy took up his station and peered out into the darkness for some indication of the buoy. Ahead he could see that his dad was still working the spotlight, trying in vain to find the pickup point. Jack motored the vessel around in a large, slow arc, sweeping the darkness with his light. Jimmy put the gaff down and stepped into the cabin.
“What’s up, Pop?”
“I think this one’s a goner. Too close to the main channel. Tug probably snagged it with his wire.”
“Kind of deep if it’s out by the channel, don’t you think?”
“Water’s still cold down there, Jimmy. Lots of crab still staying deep, coming outta the mud late… trap was probably full too.”
Jimmy knew better than to argue with his father about the motives and lifestyle of the blue crab. In some ways, it was easier to lose the trap under these circumstances than it was to face the hard truth that the season had been off to a terrible start. A heavy spring snow melt, combined with unseasonably rainy weather, had watered down the brackish Chesapeake water, driving the crabs further south. In years past, the two of them would be out every day and have all the boat’s yearly expenses paid off within the first couple of months; after that, everything else was profit. This year, though, they’d been out an average of two or three times in a week and barely made enough to cover their fuel expenses. Like farmers, they survived at the whim of their environment.
“Okay, Jimmy, we’ll write thisn’ off. Damn it, that’s the fifth one this week.”
“It’s okay, Pop. We have enough materials to replace them. We can come out again on Saturday.”
“Nah, Saturday’s off. I’m running Katy into the city… Dr. Malcolm.”
“Well, it’d be kinda soon, but you wanna try and get one more day in tomorrow.”
“Can you make a couple new traps tonight?”
“Sure. I’ll stay up and do ‘em.”
“Fine. Let’s start heading back in and run the last ten by the island, then call it a day.”
“Right, Pop. I’d like to try and make it in by nine thirty. I’m finishing up the Hill boat this afternoon, but I still have to get these guys to market.”
“You ain’t done with that one yet, boy? You know they’re crewing her out for a trip to Florida tomorrow morning, right?”
“Relax, Pop. Everything’s done. I just want to go back and double check all the work, make sure I didn’t miss anything. Man, it was a big job. Not only did I get both the main and jib furlers, but all the standing and running rigging as well. I’ll be taking her out with the owner for a shake-down cruise after lunch. You wanna come along, Pop?”
“Can’t, son. Got too much to do. Someone has to run the marina. I’ve got five yachts coming in from down south today. Three of the slips are ready, but the other two boats I’m gonna have to shuffle around some. Then there’s a bunch of stuff that has to be done fer that party on Friday—the one fer all the island help.”
“I don’t know. I always feel like they’re tossing us a bone with those things.”
“They are tossing us a bone with those things, but it’d do you some good to get out, boy. You work too hard, ‘n you could use a break.”
“You’re one to talk about working too hard! And who says I don’t get out none?”
“I mean with the family. Katy really wants to go. She’s going in for testing on Saturday. It would mean a whole bunch if you came to the party.”
“Alright, alright, I’ll be there. You didn’t have to pull the Katy card. I’m going to step out back and have a smoke.”
“When are you going to quit those things, Jimmy? They ain’t no good for you.”
“You’re preaching again, Pop. It’s my temple, remember?”
Before the old man had a chance to reply, Jimmy slipped out of the cabin, closing the door gently behind him. The world that had remained hidden by the darkness was slowly coming into view with the approaching sunrise. In the soft pre-dawn light, there is newness to everything. It’s only when the sun breaks over the Eastern Shore and floods the day with all of its light that the world reveals all of its flaws. At this time of the day, it wasn’t quite so evident that the boat really needed to be repainted or that he could use a shave or some new clothes and shoes. In this dim light, everything had a new beginning; if only the same could be said for his kid sister Katy.
At twenty-two, she was hardly a kid. With twelve years between them, Jimmy had always just thought of her that way, and with her fragile condition, he couldn’t help being a doting older brother. Any time she came up in conversation when Jack and he were out on the boat, he had to step outside, usually for a smoke. Although her illness was presently in check, the overall odds were not in her favor, and it destroyed Jimmy to contemplate what the world would be like without Katy Parks in it. Getting out on the water like this, in the early morning hours, was how he kept his world in check. Out on the water, a man need not be a participant in his own life, if but only for a moment in this soft light of a new morning. It was an illusory experience, but necessary to maintain hope enough to get through the rest of the day.
It was late May, and already the summer was fast upon the Chesapeake. Jimmy lit up a cigarette and then rolled the rumpled soft pack up into the sleeve of his t-shirt as he walked out to the back of the boat to take in the view. No matter where he observed his wake, it was always within the confines of the bay. Later that day, he would be skippering a beautiful sloop through these same waters, something he had done many times in the past as the Gibson Island Marina’s sole Master Rigger and Sail Maker. It was through his capable hands that the sails were first hoisted aloft, and it was by his hands those same crafts were piloted. Even if the cruises were limited to an hour out and back, he alone had the privilege of experiencing these vessels in a way that only the original craftsmen could possibly understand.
He had been offered many opportunities to serve as captain to all points beyond the bay, but he had never been willing to free himself from his sense of obligation to his sister and his father. His father would often remind him, “Family first, always.” Where his sister was concerned, he had always taken this to heart. He’d spent too much time with her in the hospital while doctors battled the cancer that tried to overtake her young body. His greatest fear was that he wouldn’t be there for her when her time came. Where these majestic sailing craft were concerned, all he could ever hope for was just a glimpse at their real potential, but never in the environment for which they were built—the ocean.
***
Brian Lynch found nothing quite so satisfying as having breakfast outside, overlooking the bay. In fact, he took great satisfaction in almost everything he did within view of the bay, but breakfast was always an especially intimate experience for him. With the exception of Mary, his housekeeper, he was the only early riser on the estate to greet the sun each day. He never imposed his uncivilized hours on Klaus, his cook, so he had grown accustomed to making his own breakfast. Either out of a sense of duty or out of a sense of caring for the man, Mary had looked after Brian’s needs for the past thirty-three years. She eventually assumed the responsibility of cooking his morning meals and would harshly dismiss him from the kitchen if she ever caught him in there trying to fend for himself.
Brian was born the son of a powerful Maryland judge who was the fourth in a line of the state’s more notable lawmakers. His grandfather had helped broker the land deal that would eventually become Gibson Island, home to Maryland’s most wealthy and powerful. Like the generations before him, Brian had started out as a lawyer, but his talents did not lie in orchestrating the state courtrooms like his father’s had. In the beginning, he worked as an attorney for numerous corporations in nearby Baltimore, until he realized he possessed the ability to manage them better than the clients he would eventually take them from. He understood money better than anyone, and more to the point, he knew how it was to be made and properly managed. It had been many years since he had practiced law, but in that time, he had built his family’s fortune far beyond the vision of his father and grandfather.
Baltimore Sun in hand, he perused the world events through the wire framed reading glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Without removing his gaze from the columns of newsprint, his hand reached out and found his coffee cup for its last remaining sip, and after slowly draining the vessel of its contents, he reunited it with its waiting saucer. As if on cue, Mary came out onto the patio with a carafe of fresh coffee and some freshly cut strawberries.
“I suppose you’ll be going into the city today, Mr. Lynch?” she asked, filling his empty cup.
“Yes, I suppose I will, although I’d be quite content to stay here in this very spot for the rest of eternity in your charming company.”
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to retire before too much eternity has passed.”
“A young girl like you, already talking of retirement?”
“You flatter me Mr. L…”
“Yes.”
“… as always.”
“Yes.”
“And you will be home for your dinner at a respectable hour, I assume?”
“I don’t anticipate any delays this afternoon.”
“You never do, Mr. Lynch, but your anticipation hasn’t prevented many a dinner from going to waste. The cook would appreciate some notice if you don’t mind. He’s German and takes it quite personally when you let his food wait and dry out in the oven.”
“I see. Well, I’ll make a special effort to be home on time.”
“And will you be attending the party on Friday?”
“Party?”
“At the marina.”
“Oh, is it that time of the year already? Yes, I suppose I should make something of a showing.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll have your club blazer dry cleaned in time. And will you be taking William?”
Brian Lynch blinked and looked up from his paper for the first time, locking onto Mary’s inquisitive gaze.
“I’m glad I finally have your attention,” she continued. “He’s getting worse, in case you haven’t noticed.”
“As long as he’s here, he’s in his home and he’s contained.”
“Mr. L., he used to be nuisance, but now I’m really concerned he’ll do himself harm. He isn’t getting any better, and I think maybe you should start thinking of other arrangements.”
“And what would you suggest, Mary? An institution? Maybe a padded cell and hourly medication? Maybe some good old-fashioned shock treatment, or perhaps we should just have him lobotomized?”
“I’m not suggesting any of that, Mr. Lynch, but he does need help—more than what we can give him here.”
“We are already giving him plenty,” he said, returning his focus to the paper. “He’s my son, and as long as he is here with us, he’s in his home with his family, and that’s what counts most. Besides, he’s not nuts, Mary. He’s just colorful. After all, where’s the fun in being rich if you can’t be just a little eccentric?”
Mary had been to this point in the conversation enough times to know it was over. She could only imagine the concern Mr. Lynch had for his son and knew he would always want was best for him. She had known William Lynch as both child and man. It was she that had nursed and diapered him, even as his own mother lay removed from the world in the next room. She had tended to every cut and scrape, comforted every hurt feeling, and applauded every achievement from graduating kindergarten to passing the Bar. It may not have been her blood that coursed through his veins, but she had every right to feel a mother’s concern for the man who had been losing his mind for the past year.
***
It was good to be at sea again. The early morning sun poured through the cabin windows to usher in another day. The deck was canted over ten degrees to starboard. With the gentle heaving, the captain estimated five- to seven-foot seas out of the nor’east. With eight bells struck, he listened to the familiar clamor of feet and hands about the deck and in the rigging outside his cabin that came with the changing of the watch. With each new day came the promise of new adventures and distant horizons waiting to be discovered. It was a solemn oath of greater things to come, penned by the hand of destiny. Slipping into the soft leather of his favorite pair of boots, the captain strode across his cabin and out the door onto the quarter deck.
The community of ship personnel was busy with their daily routine of scouring the deck with the heavy holy stones, mending sails, and replacing rigging; and all was as it should be aboard his ship—his ship. It was his ship, an extension of the very fiber of his body and the substance of his soul. She had earned him honor and glory in battle and riches for his King and country. With the wind at his back and the sea before him, he was a god in the presence of mere mortal men.
On the deck below, he observed his two passengers by the larboard handrail. Seven days out of Jamaica, and they were still just as out of place in their surroundings as they were their first day aboard.
“Good morning to you both, good sirs. And how do you fare this fine day?”
“Very well, Captain… and as for you? How do you fare?”
“Brilliant, Sir Brian. The Lord God has personally prepared for me another glorious day, for which I am his most humble servant. I say, in these tropical climates, you would do well to cast off those heavy English tweeds for something more sheer, like what I have chosen to wear”
***
Mary turned her head away from the balcony above her. In spite of all she had experienced in her life, decorum still dictated that one should avert their eyes in the presence of a man wearing nothing but soft leather musketeer boots and a broad-brimmed, red velvet hat adorned with a single ostrich plume.
“Mr. L., he’s naked.”
“I can see that, Mary. Oh, Captain,” he called out, directing his attention back to his son on the balcony, “will you be joining us for breakfast this morning?”
“A kind offer indeed, sir, but the responsibilities of a captain are many, and duty calls me away from your most gracious company. I hope we may dine together tonight in my cabin.”
“A splendid suggestion, Captain, I do so look forward to it.”
The captain surveyed his world one last time and then disappeared back into his stateroom. Brian Lynch tried to return to his morning paper, but the burning sensation of Mary’s gaze boring into the side of his head prevented this simple pleasure. “What?” he asked her, begging an explanation for the cold stare.
“You shouldn’t be encouraging him like that. Instead, you should be getting him some help. Standing outside like that with his thing all hanging out? I still can’t believe it.”
“He’s the same little boy you used to bathe in the kitchen sink. There’s nothing there you haven’t seen a thousand times before.”
“The little boy in the sink didn’t have all of that hair. It’s not right Mr. L. He’s getting worse. This is more than just a middle-age crisis. He’s sick.”
Brian Lynch sighed at the certainty of her statement. It was at times like this that he wished she didn’t have so much history with the family. If these words had come from the mouth of any other domestic, he could simply dismiss them with a wave of his hand.
“Look, Mary… I appreciate your candor in this matter and everything you feel we ought to be doing. I don’t have all of the answers right now. I don’t know why he walked away from the firm. I don’t know why he thinks he’s Captain Henry Morgan, and I don’t know why he doesn’t recognize us. There may be merit to what you say, but in the end, he is mine, and he is my most treasured possession. He is something I simply cannot allow to forever slip away to the grasp of some institution. I cannot bring myself to put him in a place where he can’t be my son, whether he thinks he’s Henry Morgan or William Lynch. I’m asking you to be patient. Please, Mary. There are a few things I’m working on—even as we speak—that may help this situation. In the end, this’ll all work out for the best. Please trust me.”
In spite of her better judgment, she conceded without a fight. As concerned as she was about the young man’s mental state, she shared her employer’s feelings on the matter and had come to trust his judgment over the years.
