Fathom
Fathom: a measure of six feet; also means to understand
Harley waved for Emmett to back up. The rope arching over the steel pulley creaked, and William thought he looked the part of a medieval witch-dunking.
Emmett’s face was a mask of concentration as he inched William down. Harley directed the flashlight’s beam as close to her cousin as she could. The light still spun crazily on the wall. William focused on a round wooden object beneath him. He secured the object with a bowline on a second line and double pumped to signal “up.”
The tractor pulled him clear. William swapped his rope for the other. “Move her forward, Uncle Emmett!” The engine rumbled and strained as the mysterious wooden object was pulled steadily upward.
A barrel emerged into the sunlight, swinging from the steel pulley. William and Harley whooped their delight. Using William’s rigging knife, Emmett scraped the dirt from the barrel’s side. Dark Rum was painted in fading colours. When he shook the barrel and heard the sloshing inside William sighed. It wasn’t gold.
They hammered the boards back on the well. William and Harley rolled the barrel up to the shed and stood it up beside the weed whacker.
“Whatever the Real McCoy hid for Granddad,” said William as they walked back to the veranda, “it’s not in Saint-Pierre and it wasn’t in that well.”
“You still believe in the phantom’s gold?”
“Yes! I can’t prove it, but I’m sure it exists. And somehow Cavendish’s death was involved. If Uncle Emmett’s right, Grand- dad certainly won’t just visit the boat. So we need to find a reason for him to sail Fathom, don’t you think?”
Harley warmed to the idea. “Be kinda nice if Daniel sailed her in the race. If he gets his sea legs back he might get more work coming at the loft and …”
Emmett called out from the kitchen. “Louder and funnier, please.”
“We were saying it would be good for Daniel to race Fathom,” answered Harley.
“Well, of course it would. But it would take a lot to get Daniel to agree to sail her, let alone race her,” mused Emmett. William and Harley waited for more of an explanation.
“First off, who knows what condition she’s in.”
“You tell us,” challenged William, bolting for the footpath that led to the boathouse. Harley sprinted in his wake and that got Emmett to follow.
-
The right key and some oil allowed them to unlock and fling open the two seaside doors. The winch screeched the cradle down the rusty tracks into water that seemed to sparkle a greeting.
Emmett forgot to remove his shoes and roll up his pant legs. He ran his fingers along her hull one after the other. William thought he looked like he was playing a piano, which he accompanied by uttering an admiring, “My, oh my, oh my … Dogs and the devil, she’s a beauty. You can see why Jack tried to restore her.”
“I’m glad my dad didn’t believe Fathom has a blood curse.”
“Now the trick will be to convince Daniel.” To nobody in particular he added, “You know, the name schooner comes from the Scottish ‘to scoon,’ or to skip a flat stone across the water. It was given to one of the first schooners launched in Gloucester, Massachusetts, in 1713. When Captain Robinson launched the first such vessel it was deemed to skip gracefully across the water. That’s how the name schooner came to be. This one looks like she’d do a pretty skip, eh, Harley? Pity we don’t have the means of stepping her masts.”
Harley explained further, “A crane. We’d need to be in a boatyard or have a crane nearby to do that.” Then she finished with the obvious, “We don’t have a crane.”
William smiled and pointed out to sea. “Captain Thornton does.”
There was Thornton’s Coast Guard cutter cruising up the coast.
-
Captain Thornton was enthusiastic. He said it would be good practice for his men to work on Fathom, to be better prepared for rescue efforts on older boats.
Like worker ants, his crew swarmed over the schooner. They pulled her rigging into place. They helped Emmett step her masts.
“William,” said Emmett, “slip one of those boots over the end, will you?” He pointed to rubber cones with holes in them. William slipped the boots over the bottom end of the two masts before they were threaded through their respective holes in the deck.
Once below, Emmett lifted the boards that covered the keel and bilge and called up to the crew to lower, lower, lower the two masts that inched their way down. Now William understood Emmett’s request not to pour bilge water down his back. The bilge was the area around the keel and beneath the floor boards. The water gathered there smelled of wet wood, wet paint, and diesel fuel. He might be imagining things but he also thought he detected the faint smell of fish — probably from its days as a fishing boat before McCoy bought it. Who would want that poured down their back? If it got too deep, Emmett explained, it got pumped out. William could feel the waves rocking the boat as they bubbled along her hull.
The mast had been sanded and varnished to a glossy smoothness that felt like a fine piece of furniture. William helped push the foot of the masts till each rested on its rightful step. It spread its weight over the keel. That minimized stress, Emmett explained. William could feel the extra weight settling the schooner deeper into the water. He held his breath. He was slipping deeper below the surface but then it stopped. Back on deck, he helped Emmett slide the boots down to deck level to keep water out.
The two Coast Guard mechanics nodded in appreciation at the way the diesel engine had been stored. They filled her tank with a few litres of fuel. She started up with the old hand crank. It didn’t have a push button start, strictly old school. It reminded William of those old movies where they used a hand crank to start the cars. They all marvelled how little water seeped into her hull considering how long she’d been out of water. Could dampness and unfulfilled dreams have kept her seams tight? mused Emmett.
They motored away from the cutter and drifted towards their mooring, a big, orangey-red ball that floated above its anchor line. Harley passed William a long gaff hook. He stroked through the water until he hooked and pulled up the mooring line. They laid it through the hawse hole and over the bollard at the bow.
“Hawse hole” was the term Harley used. But the anchor rope didn’t run through a hole. It was a two-foot-wide brass fitting, one on either side of the bow. It didn’t quite close over at the top. It looked more like a set of brass bull horns curving in to each other but with enough of a gap to easily drop an anchor line.
The job Jack McCoy had started was finished. It had taken thirty skilled men from the Coast Guard just over four hours to pull her together. It had helped that his dad had all the parts she needed ready to go.
She bobbed at her mooring, within hailing distance of her twin, Mary. The two racehorses tugged impatiently at their bridles, aching to run with the wind, said Emmett.
-
The porch side door swung open. Daniel, windblown, in shorts and short sleeves, walked in. They jumped up and rushed him out to the veranda to see Fathom.
Emmett was the first to speak. “Now, before you get all riled up, the kids and I thought it might be a good idea to finish what Jack started here with Fathom. She’s all set to sail, Daniel, if you would just …”
“There is no way in hell I’m sailing that boat,” snapped Daniel.
William piped up. “It was my idea, Granddad. I thought it would be a nice thing to do. You know, finish up my dad’s project on the anniversary of his death.”
That calmed Daniel right down but it didn’t change his mind.
“That boat’s got a blood curse on her. And who knows what condition she’s in.”
That stymied Emmett for a moment. “Then race my boat, your old boat. Sail Mary.”
William was about to object. Sailing the Mary wouldn’t get Daniel any closer to the Real McCoy, who only haunted Fathom. Harley came to his rescue.
“Actually, I hate to say it, but you can’t lend Daniel your boat for the race. As chairman of the event, Grandpa, you must keep an arm’s-length’ relationship with the contestants. Those are the rules. I mean, I printed them out, remember?”
A pall descended over the room as Emmett took stock. “Well I guess that’s that. There’ll be no McCoys racing this year.”