Stinger - Chapter 1

The opening chapter of a developing story of sailing, guilt, and tragedy manifested by a moment of parental devotion.

“Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze

On me alone it blew.”

~The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

“It’s past the last row,” Murph pointed over the dash toward the shrink-wrapped boats packed along the frozen lane. Gar leaned forward, scanning for the turn past two powerboats nearly touching each other.

“How’d they squeeze that one in there?” Gar muttered.

“It’s a maze of money,” Murph said as the truck crawled past the entombed crafts. “There it is, up on the right.” The bow of a sailboat extended over the frozen grass, emerging from beneath a frayed tarp.

“Yep,” Gar whispered. He pulled the pickup close, shutting off the engine as the tarp rippled in the cold late-winter breeze. Lines hung loosely through torn-out eyelets. Murph opened his door and stepped out, walking to the front of the truck. Gar lingered a moment, catching his reflection in the rearview mirror— seeing his father’s pale-blue eyes staring back at him. He slid out of the seat.

“They gonna have any problem with us untying that cover?” Murph asked with a laugh.

“Not at this point.”

“I’ll throw it in the truck,” Murph offered.

They stood for a moment in silence as the wind lifted the tarp, exposing the boat before letting it settle back down. Murph broke the quiet.

“Does it look like you thought it would?”

Gar exhaled. “Maybe better.”

“Better’s good.”

“Yeah,” Gar said surveying the boat.

A break in the clouds sent a sudden shaft of sunlight slicing through the gray sky, brightening the yard for an instant before vanishing. Gar felt the momentary lift in his mood—and the unexpected ebb as the light disappeared. He glanced upward, hoping it wouldn’t happen again, then quickly regretted the thought.

“Apparently there’s still a sun up there.” Murph followed his gaze then added, “Think we can find a ladder?”

“I knew there was something,” Gar’s mind was finally released from the nagging feeling he had forgotten something. “I’ll go see if I can find one.”

Gar walked away as Murph moved along the hull, squeezing between the boats. He ran a hand over the smooth fiberglass—more an act of affection than inspection. He knew Gar’s interest in this old Triton sailboat had more to do with its history than its design. Tugging on the ragged tarp, he contemplated cutting it free, but decided to let Gar have the moment.

“Got one!” Gar called, followed by the sound of aluminum clanging against a hull. Murph considered replying with a quip but the timing didn’t feel right, and he was becoming more aware of the cold seeping into his toes.

“It’s a little long,” Gar said, as he rested the ladder along side the truck.

“Yeah, you found the big one.” Murph stomped his feet for warmth.

“The rest were locked.”

“Well, let’s get the cover off and check ‘er out,” Murph said, conscious to keep the mood light.

Gar lowered the ladder and began untying the knots securing the tarp. Murph reached into his pocket, pulled out his dull Swiss Army knife, and announced, “I’ve got my knot-untying tool.”

Within minutes, the tarp lay crumpled on the frozen grass. Gar wadded it up and tossed it into the truck bed while Murph propped the ladder against the starboard quarter and climbed up.

“It’s a sailboat!” Murph announced, swinging a leg over the faded lifeline.

Gar lingered at the base of the ladder, letting the moment rush over him. He felt, with some certainty, that this wouldn’t be the last time he climbed aboard. He had imagined this moment for weeks. This was the boat that drifted through his childhood memories. It wasn’t his first sailboat, but he suspected it might be his last.

“Yep, this is a sailboat,” Gar said, pausing at the top of the ladder to survey the deck and cabin top, weathered with age but seemingly unchanged since 1962.

“Deck’s solid,” Murph said, moving about on the cold fiberglass. “It’s been taken care of—we both know that. I see a few spots where the deck’s been repaired, but it feels solid.”

Gar tapped his knuckles on the deck. She came from Pearson’s Bristol yard in Rhode Island, where they used balsa-cored decks. With water intrusion, the core becomes a nursery for microbes, reducing the wood’s rigidity to nearly nothing.

“It’s pretty nice,” he murmured.

“You as excited as you’d thought you’d be?”

Gar hesitated before responding. Any wavering now and he might talk himself out of it before he even understood why.

“No, no, I love it. I do.” He glanced up. Murph was waiting. “You know me. I just…” He sighed. “It’s been a while, and now I’m here. You know. It’s hard to explain, but—I guess the boat’s like an old friend.”

Murph nodded. “I get that. It’s a lot to take in after what happened.” He looked around, already wishing he hadn’t said it.

“Yeah. You know…” Gar hesitated, then tried to lighten the moment. “It was ’62—Camelot and all that. It’s like a time machine.” He looked toward the bow. “And Dwight’s boat—I don’t want it to just slip away.”

The ladder shifted beneath him. He adjusted his weight.

“You love the old boat,” Murph said.

Gar exhaled. “Yeah.”

“Need a hug, buddy?” Murph said, giving the conversation a chance to shift.

“Maybe later,” Gar said, distracted now, eyes scanning the deck.

A gust rattled the boatyard. Lines clanged against masts, louder for a moment, then settling back into their familiar music as Gar climbed over the lifelines and lowered himself into the cockpit.

“So, now you’re actually on the boat, what do you think?”

“Just as I hoped,” Gar replied matter-of-factly, continuing to scan forward and aft. “Just as I remember.”

In a flash of memory, he imagined the boat floating on open water, but the vision faded almost as quickly as it came.

“You see yourself out on the lake in this?”

“I do. Like years ago.” Gar said as he pulled his phone from his pocket. “Can you get a picture? I’ll send it to Mairin, let her know I’m here.”

He handed the phone to Murph, as he recalled a Polaroid of himself standing on the deck during his youth. Murph fumbled with the screen but eventually captured two nearly identical photos of Gar standing stiffly on the deck.

Gar took the phone and typed his message, as Murph studied the cabin top. A small brass Master Lock secured the companionway hatch.

“Houston, we have a problem,” Murph announced, nodding toward the lock.

“What?” Gar asked, drawn back to the moment. He saw Murph’s hand on the lock. “Oh, yeah… He said the key’s in one of the seat lockers—hopefully.”

He stepped back and lifted the lid on the starboard seat.

“All set,” he said as he pulled a ring of keys off the old rusty cup hook glancing down at the clean, mostly empty locker that contained a bilge pump handle and a quart of Epifanes Spar Varnish.

The lock opened easily. Gar slid the hatch cover back and lifted out the boards. As grey light entered the cabin, a faint smell of engine oil and varnished wood drifted into the cold air.

Gar ducked his head inside and felt a surge of relief and excitement.

“It’s beautiful,” he said as stepped down the cabin ladder.

Murph followed, drawn in by the promise of discovery. They stood below in solemn silence as their eyes to adjusted to the dim light.

“Woah,” Gar finally whispered, running a hand along a framed-glass locker panel. “You couldn’t see this in the pictures.”

“I’ve looked at a few newer Triton 28 interiors online,” Gar added, his breath lingering in the cold air. “None of them looked like this.”

“Buddy, this is something else,” Murph said, opening a small locker. “I don’t think I’ve ever been below before—I think I must have...”

The faint scent of turpentine and varnish lingered in the woodwork. Murph ran a hand over the mahogany.

“This wood is…” His voice trailed off in admiration. “Dwight must have added more over the years. Is this how you remember it?”

Gar shook his head. “Not exactly.”

“Any sails onboard?” Murph said, as the cold brought him back to more practical matters.

“They’d be sitting out on the bunks—they must be back at his dad’s place, along with all the cushions,” Gar said. “That’s gotta be where it all is.”

They moved through the cabin reverently, opening drawers, pulling at cabinet handles, without speaking.

Murph finally broke the silence. “Well, you’re all set for cocktails. Dwight left you a full bottle of Beefeater and Black Seal—tonic’s frozen, though.” Murph held the plastic bottle sideways for effect.

“Figures.”

Murph stepped around the bulkhead and pointed. “This forward port’s glass is cracked.”

Gar leaned in. “Not much of a crack.”

Murph shrugged. “I wouldn’t even fix it. If that’s the only issue, I’d say you’re set, my friend.”

Gar tapped the bulkhead as he passed under it, sliding past Murph. They both eyed the large oak beam under the mast-, silently acknowledging its presence.

Gar ran his hand over a brass oil lamp mounted on a gimbal. “How about this?”

Murph grinned. “Yeah, I can see you reading Moby-Dick by lamplight, but knowing you it’d be about Socrates chained up in a cave.”

Gar almost corrected him—Plato, not Socrates—but let it go.

“The boat was in the water last season,” Murph continued. “Must be pretty much ready to go…”

“My only worry is that the son’s not really a boat guy. I just want to check if the hoses are off.”

They removed the steps and the panel covering the engine compartment, revealing a brutish-blue diesel engine packed neatly inside.

“Yanmar,” Gar said, surprised. “That’s not original, but these things run and run.”

“No Atomic 4?” Murph raised an eyebrow.

Gar shook his head. “I was expecting one too, but I’d take a diesel any day — looks new.” He knelt over the engine. “Ever started up a gas engine on a boat without thinking — this might be all she wrote?”

Murph laughed. “Even if you run the blower for five minutes, you still push the button and it’s like — here we go.” He let his voice go fasetto for effect.

“You as cautionary tale…”

Gar turned his attention back to the engine. “Pump hose is off—good sign. Definitely winterized” He could see the bead of pink antifreeze clinging to the end of the hose.

Gar pulled hard on the alternator belt and the engine spun freely until it hit compression.

“Feels good,” Gar said, standing up. “I’ll take a few pictures to look over later.”

Murph climbed out, giving Gar full access.

“Keeping the name, right?” Murph called from the cockpit.

“Absolutely!” Gar replied, glancing up from his phone. “If I changed that, you and half the people on this river would kill me.”

Murph grinned. “That’s fair. Maybe you can fill the shoes…”

Gar hesitated. “That’s not possible. Just... He was a hell of a guy—like he was carved out of granite. I never thought he’d grow old…”

Murph let that settle. “Well, next step is talking to his son.”

“Yeah.”

“Is the price is firm?”

“Yeah, they’re asking eight, but he told me he’d consider six.”

“So, he said six over the phone? You think you got any wiggle room?”

“I hate this part,” Gar admitted. “I’m just gonna assume that’s the bottom. Probably couldn’t buy a decent motorcycle for that price.”

“True,” Murph nodded. “But a motorcycle doesn’t suck your money dry every season—if you live.”

Gar ignored the jab. “I’m set on getting it. The price is fair, and I want to feel good about the whole transaction. I’ll ask about the sails and paperwork when I meet him and if that’s all square, I’ll hand him the money.”

Murph hesitated. Then, casually: “Does Ashley know you’re getting this boat?”

Gar wasn’t ready for that. “I haven’t talked to her in a few weeks.” He frowned. “And I wasn’t seriously considering it last time we spoke.” He looked down. “She talks with Mairin all the time. I don’t know if it’s come up.”

Murph studied him. “Think she’ll be okay with it?”

Gar drew a slow breath, eyes surveying the cabin sole. “I don’t think she cares if I’m happy or not.”

Silence.

His voice dropped. “And I can’t argue with that.”

“So,” Murph said quietly, “you just go on. Right? You’ve got to.”

Gar swallowed. “Yeah. I guess I just go on.”

Murph cleared his throat. “How about Cameron? He’s got to be looking forward to sailing this summer.”

“Yeah, he called and said they’re renting the Mumford cottage again for two weeks.”

“Love that old place.”

Gar nodded, happy to move on to another topic. “Not many of them that original—maybe the Hart cottage. That one’s pretty much like it was in the ’20s.”

They let the quiet settle in, then Murph finally asked, “Ready to close her up and head back?”

“Yeah, let’s do that.”

He slid the panel back over the engine and climbed up to the cockpit and mindlessly went through the motions of closing up.

Back on the ground, they stood quietly, taking in the hull’s worn exterior for a moment protected in the wind shadow of a forty foot Bayliner. Bare trees lining the river offered little protection as the March winds were channeled up and over the steep banks.

“You planning on sailing with the bottom like that?” Murph asked, walking up to the hull and running his hand over a patch of peeling paint.

Gar sighed. “I’m really looking forward to that. I sent Cam pictures—that’ll be the first thing he asks me about.”

“Yeah… I think I’ll be busy that day,” Murph said with a smirk.

“Yeah, everybody’s busy when it’s time for bottom work,” Gar said. “Probably take me more than a day, anyway.”

Murph exhaled, already sensing the ache in his shoulders at the thought of scraping and sanding. “Please pick a warm day.”

“I’ll buy you lunch.”

Murph blew a short blast of air through his pursed lips in response.

“Okay—and dinner and beer.

Murph stared at Gar then threw his head back in acceptance and heading for the passenger side of the truck mimicking an angry teenager. He slid in the truck that offered no comfort from the cold.

He watched Gar grab the ladder and disappeared around a powerboat. A moment later, he reappeared, taking a picture of the for-sale sign taped to the bow.

Murph waited until Gar climbed in the truck. “What did the sign say?”

“62 Pearson Triton. Good sails, good engine. Different phone number than what I have.”

Murph nodded.

“Want me to drop you off at home?” Gar asked.

“No, just take me to the barn—I want to get the tractor back together.”

Gar got in and started the truck then backed away from the boat, carefully maneuvering down the narrow lane until he found a spot to turn. As they neared the main building, Murph rubbed his hands together.

“Mind if I crank the heat?”

“The only thing that works is the defroster in this piece of crap,” Gar muttered. “My feet are frozen.”

“Nice truck. I got a guy who can fix it.”

“I was thinking about parking it a couple feet into a tree, but maybe your idea’s better.”

Gar slowed as a brand-new Ford pickup pulled into a spot near the marina office.

Murph spotted it, too. “It’s Clark Shelp. You want to stop and talk to him?”

Looking over at Murph, Gar sighed. “Okay. Let’s see if there are any yard fees before I go talk to Dwight’s son.”

He backed into a space behind Clark’s truck. Clark didn’t get out right away. He seemed to be looking down—probably at his phone, Gar thought. A moment later, the truck door swung open, and Clark stepped out.

He looked older than Gar remembered, thicker through the middle. His scowl lingered until he reached the driver’s side window, then eased into something closer to amusement.

Gar rolled it down. The frozen seal popped as it released its grip.

“Garner Langstrom and Sidney Murphy!” Clark bellowed. “What the hell are you two doing out today?”

He reached through the window to shake Gar’s hand, then pointed at Murph. “What kind of trouble are you getting into?”

Murph was ready. “Gar’s looking to buy a boat.”

Clark squinted. “That so?” He gestured toward the yard. “I got that Hatteras over there—been sittin’ since the end of summer. All ready to go fishin’.”

Gar didn’t turn to look. “I came to look at Stinger.”

“Oh, Dwight’s old boat?” Clark’s brow furrowed. “What do you wanna do with that?”

“Sail it—What do you think you do—ya’ horse’s ass?” Murph said in the manner he and Clark shared.

“I was just wondering if the yard bill was paid up,” Gar said.

Clark looked skyward. “I’m not exactly sure. You think you’re really buying the boat?”

Gar nodded and looked at Murph, who nodded back.

“I’m almost certain the fees are paid,” Clark said. “I heard Dwight’s in the hospital.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“You going to go see him?”

“No. I’m dealing with his son.”

“How’d you know it was up for sale?”

“I saw the sign when I drove through the yard last month,” Murph said.

“Stay the hell out’a my yard, Murphy—I don’t like you pokin’ around here,” Clark laughed.

“I’ll drive around your goddamn yard anytime I want,” Murph shot back.

“Whatever.” Clark backhanded the air.

“Yeah, whatever.”

“Garner, get this asshole out of here.”

“Alright. I’ll call you if I get the boat.”

“Call my cell. Ask ding-dong over there for the number—he’s got it.”

“Later, fellas. I got real work to do.”

“See ya’,” Gar and Murph said in unison.

Gar rolled up the window. He leaned toward the rearview mirror for one last glimpse of the boat, but met his own pale-blue eyes instead.Thanks for reading!