Stinger - Chapter 3

Garner collects the past.

Audio: The author’s voice recreated on ElevenLabs

If a man must be obsessed by something, I suppose a boat is as good as anything, perhaps a bit better than most.

E.B. White

On Mairin’s advice, Gar drove the Outback. The snow, which had been falling lightly at the start of his trip, increased rapidly. He eased his speed from 45 to 35, matching the pace of the wind and snow, which were traveling in the same direction. He fought against this trick of perception as the snow seemed to swirl slowly around the windows. The flakes hung in the air for several seconds in what appeared to be stillness.

Tension crept up Gar’s neck and shoulders, his face tightening as he strained to see beyond the twenty feet of visibility. He slowed again, hoping to spot where the plow had passed. Vertigo gripped him. His world shrank to the car’s interior, the rest dissolving into nothingness. He braced himself for this to end badly.

And just as suddenly as he had driven into the whiteout, the road slowly appeared ahead. But the damage was done. The metallic taste in his mouth, the pounding in his chest, forced him to choke out the words, “Jesus fucking Christ…” Fresh shock mingled with old trauma. He pulled over, knowing the shaking would come next.

---

Jeff Brown was heading in the same direction on the parkway, but he was eight minutes behind and never saw the snow squall that had enveloped Gar. Lake snows could change in an instant.

Jeff was a family man with an affinity for the simple things in life. His father, Dwight, was quite the opposite—a restless man with a keen mechanical mind who enjoyed the complex. Jeff had no interest in the old Triton sailboat. He had sailed with his father when he was younger but never quite understood what all the fuss was about. To him, it all felt joyless and hard.

He and Gar had been little more than acquaintances growing up, part of the same late-boomer generation—not quite of the postwar baby boom, yet too old to belong to the next wave, which grew up with video and cable.

Dwight had been in his early forties when he finally settled down to raise a family. That had been his ultimate plan. He married his sweetheart, ten years his junior, but Jeff would be his only child.

As Jeff drove west along the parkway, the snow on the road became heavily rutted. He slowed down and eased into the left lane to pass a car that was pulled over on the shoulder.

---

Gar’s involuntary shaking had begun to subside, leaving only the occasional erratic rattle. Now would come the lingering adrenaline hangover—the ghostly exhaustion that would follow him throughout the day.

He realized he was gripping the steering wheel and relaxed his fingers, feeling his forearms come back to life. A black pickup truck drove by just as Gar began contemplating continuing his trip. Must be Jeff’s truck, he thought. The parkway was mostly deserted in the winter months, traveled mainly by the hardy souls who lived along the lakeshore and used it for their morning and afternoon commutes.

Gar reached for his phone to text Jeff letting him know he wasn't going to make it. But the thought was fleeting. Turning back wouldn’t ease the exhaustion clawing at him, and the idea of Jeff thinking less of him felt just as bad. Mairin always asked why he cared so much. He never had an answer. Maybe it had been drilled into him young. Maybe it was just the way his brain was wired. Gene, his therapist, called it oversensitivity—something to “work on.”

Though his feet were freezing, sweat from under his wool cap began dripping down his forehead. He yanked it off and tossed it onto the passenger seat as he rolled down the window. A large puff of soft snow filtered in, dusting him lightly. He checked for traffic, then slowly pulled back onto the road while attempting square breathing—a technique Gene had advised.

---

Jeff arrived at his father’s converted barn on Point Breeze Road—not on the creek side, but on the far side of the road. The wind had blown away the snow, leaving the driveway and yard exposed. Without Dwight present, Jeff felt the weight of the pending reality.

The 1800s barn had once been part of a larger farm that had been in the Anderson family for generations. But when the war took their only son, Avril, the family’s future changed. With no heir, the Andersons found it increasingly difficult to maintain the farm. In the years following the war, the property was gradually divided and sold off. By the early 1950s, what had once been a thriving homestead was little more than scattered parcels of land. When the barn and five acres went up for auction in 1952, Dwight saw an opportunity to move his shop closer to the water.

Built in a gabled-roof style, the barn had originally housed the farm’s workhorses. The floor was laid even with the ground, constructed from twelve-inch-wide, nearly three-inch-thick boards—mostly elm, chestnut, and white oak, with the occasional pieces of osage orange and catalpa—cut from the virgin forests that had once shaded the landscape. Hoof marks from pawing Morgans bore evidence of a time before tractors.

Jeff entered through a side door, quickly scanned the shop, then climbed the stairs to the second floor, where Dwight had converted the barn into a three-bedroom home. The trusses exposed in the large living area preserved a cavernous, barn-like feel. Above the kitchen and bedrooms was an additional loft, accessible via a set of old barn stairs that led up to a short door.

At the top of the loft stairs, Jeff opened the door and reached in to feel for the light’s pull string, tied to an old wire staple. With a quick jerk, he broke the string off at the fixture’s wire chain. “Fucking hell,” he murmured into the dark as he reached for his phone to light the way past boxes and scattered pieces of scavenged nautical hardware. He picked his way through until his light finally fell on the dark wooden box, stenciled with Ronald Jones, U.S. Merchant Marine. Within reach was also the green munitions box labeled “265 Cartridges Cal. .05 Linked”

Jeff lifted both box with more effort than he expected. He knew he’d carried them up here, but that must have been over twenty-five years ago. Everything seemed to have gotten heavier over time.

He closed the loft door, made his way downstairs, and set the boxes onto the coffee table with a thump. He pulled Stinger’s paperwork from his jacket pocket and slid it into the slight opening in opened the ditty box. Slumping back into the couch, he let the quiet of the place bring him back to the reality of the situation.

---

Gar headed up Point Breeze Road, spotting the historic marker at the start of Dwight's five acres. These markers were ubiquitous throughout the state, first commissioned by the Education Department in 1926. By 1936, more than two thousand had been scattered statewide. This one read:

Tiyanagarunte Creek, Seneca for “Where She Threw the Stick at Me.” Site of the second-largest Seneca Indian village. Burned to the ground during the Sullivan Campaign of 1779.

Gar caught it out of the corner of his eye and felt the familiar twinge of sadness it evoked. Jeff’s truck was already in the driveway. He pulled in behind it and stiffly got out, trying not to appear enfeebled. Walking up to the door, he knocked, taking one last deep breath. He heard footsteps coming down the stairs, and then Jeff appeared.

“Hey, come on in. How are you?” Jeff asked, reaching to shake Gar’s hand.

“Drove through some snow on the way up,” Gar said with a wry grimace.

“Thought that might’ve been your car on the side of the road. Was that you?”

“Yeah… well, my son called and wanted to ask about the boat,” Gar lied.

“He excited?”

“Yep—wants to come up this summer and sail. He’s down in Virginia now. Maybe help me get her ready.” Gar figured that was mostly true. “I've only got my wife’s car,” he said, glancing toward the driveway. “I might not be able to take all the stuff today.”

“No hurry—you can grab some of it today or leave it. It’ll be here,” Jeff said, pausing. “I’ll walk you through the shop, make sure we can find it all.”

Gar followed him inside as Jeff flipped the wall switches, bringing most of the cold fluorescent lights blinking to life. They hummed softly, illuminating the machinery Dwight had collected over the years. Gar guessed none of it had been made after 1970. The electric planer, shaper, router, drill press, jointer—even the woodworking bench—all sat heavily grounded on the old barn floor. Everything was built in a time before lightweight meant better.

“Dad’s got everything he needs to build a boat if he wanted to.”

Jeff nodded, slowly looking around, still trying to calm his breathing. The shop wasn’t as cold as outside, but it wasn’t exactly warm either.

“He always liked wood better—the Triton was kind of an anomaly. He just loved the lines, I think. It gave him more time to sail and work on other projects.” Jeff offered this information seemingly out of nowhere, then gestured toward a couple of engines along the wall. “The one on the right is the original Atomic Four out of the Triton. Dad said you could have it if you think you want it,” Jeff shrugged. “It ran when we pulled it—folks still love ’em,” he added, sensing Gar’s hesitation. “There’s a pretty big owners’ group—but I’m not sure why you’d ever really want it.”

“You know, I'll probably be fine with that Yanmar for a long time. I appreciate the offer.” Gar looked down at the old gold-painted engine with some reverence. His instinct was to keep it, but this was a three-hundred-pound problem he figured he could live without.

“So, why’d your dad end up switching to the Yanmar instead of just fixing the A-Four?” Gar couldn’t help his curiosity.

“Well, there’s a bit of a story behind that,” Jeff said with the hint of a smile. “I used to worry about this getting out, but I figure enough time has passed.” He rubbed his chin, looking down at the Atomic Four. “You might remember, back around 1980, there was a thirty-four-foot cold-molded sailboat coming across on its maiden voyage out of Toronto.” He raised his eyebrows, watching Gar for a reaction.

“Yeah, weird—I remember. They were heading south to race, as I recall, but ended up on the rocks at Hamlin Beach—right?”

“Yep. Remember the name?”

“I don't think I ever heard it,” Gar said, an inkling forming about where the conversation was going. “I drove down to see it with my friend Sid Murphy—you know him…”

“Oh yeah, I know Murph,” Jeff said, rolling his eyes slightly before nodding for Gar to follow him. He slid back a door and flipped on the lights, illuminating an even colder room, one that looked only slightly newer than the barn. Hanging on the wall was a three-foot-long, thickly varnished board with gold script:

‘Bye, Bye, Blackbird — RCYC.’

On closer inspection, Gar could see that it had been cut out with a chainsaw.

“You guys got there first? By the time Murph and I got there, the thing had been hacked to pieces,” Gar said, stepping closer for inspection. “You guys took every bit of deck hardware off that boat—that was you, wasn’t it…?” He paused. “The crew fell asleep—that’s the story I heard. I never really understood that part.”

“Here’s what happened—remember, it was October? They were forecasting a gale… That thing came roaring across the lake way sooner than anyone expected. Dad heard them on the radio, calling for help from the Canadian Coast Guard after they blew the mainsail out. The Canadians told them to call the Rochester guys because they were way closer.”

“So the crew hadn’t been asleep?” Gar asked, intrigued by the unfolding details.

“Nope. There were a lot of rumors, but here’s what really happened. The main was gone, they were in 200 feet of water, trying to crawl offshore. That’s when a wave skidded them backward and swamped the engine—water came through the hatch. And in those conditions, the anchor was useless. The keel hit and broke off, and the waves drove them far enough ashore that the crew jumped off into chest-deep water. They all made it.”

“So you and your dad went out that night and salvaged it all?” Gar asked, surprised.

“No, the weather was crazy that night and all the next day. You couldn’t get near it.”

“So, the next night?”

“Yep—me, Dad, and Eddie Farmer. We waited till midnight, grabbed some flashlights, and brought a couple of chainsaws and cable cutters. We needed Eddie’s truck. I ended up out at the road, keeping an eye out. Dad could hardly see in the daytime—I heard Eddie yelling at him not to start up a saw, but you know my dad… They cut the transom out, trying to get to the motor, but there was a big support piece for the backstay in the way. They had to take the engine out the side. We got it out and hauled it to the truck. Then they went back and cut out all the deck hardware they could. I grabbed that piece of the transom with the name on it, and it’s been hanging on that wall ever since.”

“Holy shit… So that’s the story of the Yanmar?”

“Yep. That’s the story.”

Jeff switched off the light, and Gar followed him. Jeff pointed at the sail bags hanging from the joists above their heads. “Think that’ll all fit in your car?”

“Yeah.” Gar reached into his pocket and pulled out a bank envelope. “Let me pay you first—we’re good with six thousand?”

“Dad said that’s the friends-and-family price.” Jeff smiled as he took the envelope and put it in his pocket.

Gar glanced toward the car. “Maybe I’ll put the cushions in first and see how much room is left.”

The two men quietly began moving the stored items out to the car. The last items were the extra sails.

“You got the newer genoa and the light one-fifty. There’s that storm jib along with the extra main in the same bag.” Jeff looked around. “Some of these haven’t seen the light of day in a long time. That one spinnaker is probably original—it’s got big shoulders. The other is a reacher, I think.”

“The car’s pretty much packed full,” Gar said, absently glancing around as if ready to leave.

“Jeez, I almost forgot—Dad’s got two boxes upstairs he wanted me to make sure you take. Some stuff that goes with Stinger. Follow me up, and I’ll get them for you.”

Gar followed Jeff upstairs into the home. He looked around, remembering the loftiness of the room—he hadn’t been here in years.

“I put the paperwork in the sea chest. The ammo box is kinda heavy,” Jeff said, leading Gar to the table. “Dad wanted you to take these—he made sure I told you that he wants to talk to you, too.”

“I’ll call over to the hospital when I get home,” Gar said, lifting both boxes with a twinge of apprehension as Jeff reached for the smaller one to lighten his load.

“Well, he really wanted you to come see him—that’s what he said: ‘Make sure and tell Gar to come see me right away.’”

“Sure—sure, I’ll go see him. I didn’t know… I mean, I didn’t know if he was up for visitors…” Gar’s mind began imagining whether the visit would be grim or sad.

“Yeah, he seems in good spirits—though this morning he was wiped out from the meds they give him. I’d just call first to see if he’s up for a visit. Afternoons seem to be his best time.”

“I’ll do that.” Gar looked at the sea chest. “Ronald Jones… somebody he knew from the war?”

Jeff laughed. “Ask him about that when you see him. It’s a good story. I’ll walk you out—I’m heading home.”

They stepped out into the cold. Jeff helped rearrange a few sail bags in the back of Gar’s car to fit the chests. As they shook hands, Jeff gave him a knowing look.

“It’ll be good to get back out on the water. It’s been a long time, huh?”

Gar nodded, glancing at the boxes in the back seat. “Too long.”

Jeff slapped the roof of the car. “Well, see you around, man. Let me know if you’re missing anything.”

Gar hesitated before shutting the door. “Yeah… I’ll let you know.” His voice felt distant, even to himself.

He turned to back up, but his eyes lingered on the box—heavy, as if it held more than just memorabilia and parts.

He pulled onto the road, the significance of it—of everything—still with him.