The Real McCoy
Cutter: a boat carrying pilots or law enforcement officials
The day’s events weighed heavily on all of them. Right after the meeting his grandmother had left for Halifax to seek a mortgage from private companies. His grandfather had barely touched dinner and retired early.
William had given some distance to the house and its sorrows by trudging down to think in Fathom’s cockpit.
The rain pelting the roof fought to be heard above the wind and the storm surge rasping the shore. The spindrift blowing in through the cracks couldn’t keep him awake.
William’s eyes fluttered open before he was fully awake. He pulled his jacket tighter against the chill. His eyes widened as he realized Fathom was under full sail. The same mysterious figure he had seen aboard the schooner with the red jib was at the helm.
“Hello, he’s awake. Thought you were going to sleep right through our outing, my boy.” A wave of the hand magically trimmed the sails, cranking them in tighter for maximum efficiency of sail shape to wind strength.
This wasn’t his usual bad dream with his father sewing in the cockpit. The man in the cockpit wasn’t even his father.
He was immediately taken by his size: well over six feet, shoulders that would make a wary person step aside on a sidewalk. The man’s eyes were etched by a web of wrinkles probably from years of squinting on a bright ocean.
“You’re the Real McCoy,” offered William.
“As sure as your father was his father’s son — and you, yours.”
At least in this dream people answered when spoken to.
“I lost your knife. Dropped it in the harbour,” William confessed.
McCoy nodded. “You might like to get that back. Use one of your father’s old tricks. Tie a magnet on a fishing rod and dip ’er down till it bites. By the by, glad to see you’re not frightened of the sea now, William.”
“Well, it’s a dream,” reasoned William. “Where are we headed?”
McCoy motioned towards a point of land. “The island of Saint Pierre. That’s my old loading shed, where we used to load our liquor to sell in the States. She floats.”
“Why a floating shed?”
“We usually used the main dock. But towards the end, we thought it best if the Coast Guard and the shore pirates didn’t know when we loaded and when we left. We’d pull up at high tide, load up, and try to sneak out. Bullets, guts, and glory, my boy! Ah, well that’s all in the past now. You know, Daniel could teach you a lot about sailing.”
“Granddad’s not teaching anything to anyone right now. He’s like, like a ghost.”
“I don’t think you know much about ghosts.”
“This is a weird dream.”
“A dream — you’re sure?” the Real McCoy challenged his conclusion.
“Well, I’m in the middle of the ocean, on a boat, talking to my dead great-grandfather.”
“I’m not … exactly dead. Not in the usual sense.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I’m what’s called an ‘unsatisfied spirit.’ In between two worlds, as it were.”
“Why is that?”
McCoy sighed, “I’m stuck on my ship. Stuck till I make my peace with my son, your granddad. Till I give him something I’ve hidden for him — for the pain I caused him.”
“Whad’ya hide?”
“Something of value.”
“Yeah, what?” pressed William.
“You’re presuming a certain degree of trust that hasn’t been earned yet, lad. Tail that line, will you?”
“What? I don’t know how to do that. Besides, you can sail magically, right?
“A lot could depend on your learning how to sail. Can you tie a bowline knot?”
“A what?”
“Man can’t tie a bowline will never make it as a highliner.”
“A high-what? Look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. But if you’ve got something of value, Granddad and Granny could do with some help. So, please, what did you hide?”
“I can only tell Daniel. But I will tell you that it was hidden down deep and that it floats up and down. And Fathom can take you there.”
“This a riddle?”
“Life is a riddle. Important to get the clues right.” McCoy stepped out of the cockpit to lean with his right arm lying loosely against the mast.
He stepped back into the cockpit. “Hang on.” He pointed to the dubious-looking sails that bellied with wind. The boat whistled ahead, foaming at the bow as she slipped into wisps of fog. William felt as if he were floating. He hoped he wouldn’t wake up.
From the stern, William heard the low roar of a motor. “Holy crap! Look at that.”
A Coast Guard cutter rumbled out of the fog behind them.
“Let’s make sure the Coast Guard boys don’t knock at Daniel’s door or there’ll be the devil to pay.” He waved his hand and the name Fathom magically became Arethusa.
A voice boomed over the loud-hailer. “Ahoy, Arethusa. This is Captain Thornton of the Coast Guard. You are operating without running lights. Heave to!”
McCoy whispered, “In the old days we’d burn oil-soaked rags, create a smokescreen, and turn around and come right along beside them. Nowadays, I mess up their radar.” He pointed his hand in the cutter’s direction.
Again the Captain’s voice boomed through the loud-hailer. “Damn that radar. Keep your eyes peeled for that schooner on the starboard side!”
William grinned. “This is one cool dream.”
McCoy kept his eye on the cutter. “Now we’re going to give them the slip.” And with a wave of McCoy’s hand, his sails adjusted themselves effortlessly. The schooner passed on the cutter’s port side. Two Coast Guard sailors buttoned their jackets against the cold that overtook them as Fathom/Arethusa glided into their wake.
“Ready about. Helm’s down.” McCoy gave a firm but quiet order.
“Which means what?” asked William, just as the swinging boom smacked his head.