Stinger - Chapter 1

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

Audio: The author’s voice recreated on ElevenLabs

“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?” he asked, not really expecting an answer.

“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 smirk.

“Not at this point.”

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

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 as he surveyed 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 forgot about that—I’ll go check.”

As Gar walked away, 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 the old Triton had more to do with history than design. He eyed the ragged tarp, contemplating cutting it free, but decided to let Gar have the moment.

“Got one!” Gar called, followed by the sound of aluminum clanging against something hard. Murph considered a sarcastic remark 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, resting 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 this old girl out,” Murph said, slipping into a poor Groucho Marx impression—his go-to for lightening the mood.

Gar lowered the ladder and began untying the knots securing the tarp. Murph reached into his pocket and pulled out his dull Swiss Army knife.

“Let me untie those.”

Within minutes, the tarp lay crumpled on the frozen grass. Gar tossed it into the truck bed as 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, knowing this wouldn’t be his last time climbing aboard. He’d thought about this moment for weeks. This was the boat that floated through his childhood memories. It wouldn’t be his first sailboat, but he suspected—with a heavy heart—it might be his last.

“Yep, this is a sailboat,” Gar said, stepping aboard and surveying the cabin top, unchanged since 1962.

“Just as Alberg designed it,” Murph said, walking back and forth. “Think everything’s original. It’s been taken care of—we both know that.”

Gar tapped on the deck and remembered that he had forgotten to find out if it had a balsa core or not.

“It’s pretty nice,” he murmured.

“You don’t seem as excited as I thought you’d be.”

Gar hesitated. He needed to explain—but not so much that he might talk himself out of it. “No, no, I really like it. I do.” He glanced at Murph, sensing he needed to say more. “You know me. I just…” He sighed, searching for the right words. “I’ve been waiting a while to see this boat, and now I’m here. It’s hard to explain, but—I guess I’ve known this boat forever.”

Murph nodded. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Yeah. You know…” Gar hesitated, then attempted to lighten the mood. “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.”

His voice trailed off just as the ladder shifted. He quickly adjusted his weight.

Murph caught the unspoken meaning. “I get it. You love the boat.”

Gar exhaled. “Yeah.”

“I’ll give you a big hug if it helps.”

“Maybe later,” Gar replied absentmindedly still surveying the deck.

At that moment, a gust of wind rattled the boatyard. The barely audible clanging of lines against masts intensified—so familiar it went unnoticed.

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

“Just as I hoped,” Gar replied matter-of-factly, scanning forward, then aft. “Just as I remember.”

His mind briefly 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?”

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

He handed the phone to Murph, vaguely aware of the irony—using it aboard the classic Triton of his youth. Murph fumbled with the screen but eventually captured a few nearly identical photos of Gar standing stiffly on the deck.

As Gar typed his message, 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’ve we got?” Gar asked, not noticing at first. Then he spotted the lock. “Oh, yeah. Dwight’s son said the key’s probably in one of the seat lockers—hopefully.”

Gar stepped back to the starboard seat, lifted the lid, and peered inside.

“We’re in.”

He pulled a ring of three keys off an old rusty cup hook, glancing at the clean, mostly empty locker. A bilge pump handle and a quart of Epifanes Spar Varnish were the only other contents.

The key slid smoothly into the lock and popped it open. Gar slid back the hatch cover and removed the two hatch boards. As the cabin opened up, a faint smell of engine oil and varnished wood drifted into the cold air.

Gar ducked his head inside and, despite himself, felt a surge of excitement.

“Oh, this is beautiful.”

Murph followed, drawn in by the promise of discovery.

“Let’s check it out.”

As they stepped below, their eyes adjusted to the dim light.

“Wow,” Gar said, running a hand along a stained-glass locker panel. “You couldn’t see this in the pictures.”

The Craigslist ad he found after getting a call from Murph had shown only a few grainy, overexposed shots. Neither of them had expected this much woodwork.

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

“Gar, this is something else,” Murph said, opening a small locker. “I don’t think I ever went below before.”

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?”

“They’d be sitting out on the bunks. He must be keeping them back at his dad’s place, along with all the cushions,” Gar guessed. “That’s gotta be where all the stuff is.”

They moved through the cabin reverently, opening drawers, pulling at cabinet handles, taking in the history without speaking about it.

Murph finally broke the silence. “Well, you’re all set for cocktails, Gar. Dwight left a full bottle of Beefeater and Black Seal.” He pulled out a plastic bottle. “The tonic’s frozen, though.”

“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, heading back to the main cabin. They both eyed the large oak beam, 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.”

Gar ignored the comment.

“The boat was in the water last season,” Murph continued. “Must be pretty much ready to go—don’t you think?”

“His son’s not really a boat guy, but I’m sure he’d winterized it. 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 tightly inside.

“Yanmar diesel,” Gar said, surprised. “I know for sure that’s not original, but these things just run and run.”

“No Atomic 4?” Murph raised an eyebrow.

Gar shook his head. “I was expecting one too, but honestly, a diesel is fantastic — looks new.” He knelt over the engine.

“Ever started up a gas engine in a boat without thinking, — this thing might just blow up?”

Murph chuckled. “Even if you run the blower for five minutes, you still push that start button thinking, here we go. . .” He let his voice go high-pitched for effect.

“Then your life’s a cautionary tale. . .,” Gar muttered, turning the flywheel. “Water pump hose is off. That’s a good sign. Definitely ran antifreeze through it back in the fall,” noticing a drip of pink falling from the hose.

He put both hands on the flywheel and turned it. 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, leaving Gar to take the shots of the interior.

“Keeping the name, right?” Murph asked 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.”

Gar sighed, looking around the cabin. “I’m buying the boat and the name. Maybe I’ll get a little bit of Dwight in the bargain.”

Murph studied him. “You think it’s your turn to become Dwight?”

Gar hesitated. “I know that’s not possible. Just... I don’t know. 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.”

“And the price is firm?”

“Yeah, they were 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. You couldn’t buy a motorcycle for that price.”

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

Gar ignored the jab. “I’m set on getting it, and the price feels fair. I want to feel good about the whole transaction. So, I’ll just walk in and hand him the money. I’ll ask about the sails and paperwork first.”

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

Gar frowned. “I haven’t talked with her in the past few weeks. And I don’t think I was seriously considering the boat last time we spoke.” His voice trailed off. “She talks with Mairin all the time, but I’m not sure she said anything.”

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

Gar looked down. “I don't think she cares if I'm happy or not.” His voice went quiet. “And I can’t argue with that.”

A beat of silence. Then Murph, carefully: “So, you just go on?”

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

Murph shifted the conversation. “How about your boy Cameron? He must be excited about coming up to sail with you this summer.”

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

“Love that old place.”

Gar nodded. “Not many of them are original—except 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. Murph followed, and Gar handed him the hatch board. After a couple of tries, Murph got it in place, slid the hatch shut, and secured the lock.

Back on the ground, they stood quietly, taking in the hull’s worn exterior.

“You planning to go sailing with the bottom paint like that?” Murph asked, running a hand over a patch of peeling paint.

Gar sighed. “That’s not a job I’m looking forward to. But when I send Cam pictures of the boat, that’ll be the first thing he asks me.”

Murph smirked. “Yeah… I think I’ll be busy that day.”

“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 gave him a look. “I think you’ll owe me more than lunch.”

“Okay—lunch, then dinner and beer at the Black North.”

“Now that’s more like it,” Murph said, heading for the passenger side of the truck. He slid in, watching as Gar raised a finger, signaling him to wait.

Gar grabbed 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 rolled down the window. “What’s it say?”

“1962 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 entrance, Murph rubbed his hands together.

“Mind if I crank the heat?”

“Only the defroster works in this piece of crap,” Gar muttered. “My feet are frozen.”

Murph laughed. “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 is 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?”

Gar hesitated. They had known Clark since they were teenagers, back when Clark’s grandfather, Ed Shelp, ran the marina. Unlike his grandfather— Clark ran hot and cold, but Gar knew that buying this boat meant dealing with him. There’s always a price to pay.

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 the last time Gar had seen him. A little thicker around the middle, his scowl softened into something closer to amusement as he walked up to the driver’s side window.

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. “We’re out cruisin’ ’cause Gar’s looking to buy a boat.” His voice took on a more exaggerated drawl, like an old dockhand.

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 smirked but didn’t turn to look. “Nah, I came to look at Stinger.”

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

“Sail it,” Murph shot back. “What do you think you do—ya’ horse’s ass?”

Clark and Murph had that kind of relationship. Gar had always been a little on the outs when they were together, and he felt it again now.

Clark turned back to Gar. “So, Garner is gonna be the new Dwight?”

Gar rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right—actually, I just was wondering if the yard bill was paid up.”

Clark took in a breath as he looked skyward and said, “I’m not exactly sure where they’re at on the storage fees. Are you sure you’re buying the boat?”

Gar nodded and looked over at Murph, who nodded back.

Gar hesitated, “I just need to know so I can work any bill into the bargain, then come back to you and talk you down.” He knew as soon as the words had left his mouth he shouldn’t have tried to be funny.

“Oh, you just want to rip me off—I get it!” Clark squinted at Gar, then changed the topic. “Take it easy talkin’ ol’ Dwight down. I heard he’s in the hospital.”

“Yeah, I know about that,” Gar said, gesturing to Murph, who nodded.

“You going to do the boat deal up at Strong Memorial?”

“No, I’m dealing with his son.”

“How did you know it was for sale?”

Murph ducked his head to look at Clark. “I let Gar know the boat was for sale. I saw the sign when I drove through the yard last month.”

“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 fired back feigning anger.

“Whatever,” Clark said, backhanding the air.

“Yeah, whatever,” Murph repeated.

“Get this asshole out of here,” Clark said, pretending to be mad.

“Alright,” Gar replied, feeling like he was in a play. “I’ll call you if I get the boat.”

“Call my cell. I won’t be here much ‘til things get busy. Ask ding-dong over there for the number—he’s got it,” Clark said, lifting his chin toward Murph, who smiled back.

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

“See ya’,” Gar and Murph said in unison, producing an awkwardly songlike sound in the acoustics of the truck cab.

“Thanks,” Gar offered to Murph as he rolled up the window.

They watched Clark raise his hand as he walked away, and Gar said, “He’s a peach.”

“Awe, he’s a good guy, Gar. He’s mellowed a lot. He didn’t bring up the story about you tearing the bottom of your dad’s old Chris-Craft runabout.”

“I didn’t tear the bottom out of my dad’s boat,” Gar replied, only slightly annoyed.

“Well, the story’s a whole lot better the way Clark tells it.”

Gar put the pickup in drive and headed out of the yard.