Chapter twenty-four

Jarred awake by the sound of Hullabaloo’s engines rumbling to life beneath him, Sam quickly looked around, squinting in the morning sun.

“I thought you said we weren’t leaving until ten!” he yelled at Molly, who smiled at him from the pilothouse.

“Dude, you overslept.” Molly grinned as Sam plopped down on the settee nearby. “It’s ten-thirty. If we leave now, we can make it to Southport in short order with this tide. See how it’s racing past the marker over there?” She pointed out the nearest marker, its fixed pilings standing fast against a racing current. “There’s a bakery down there I want to visit while you pay your respects to Mr. Walters. I am ready for some good bread.”

“No way are you going sightseeing, Mol. You have to stay aboard with the engines running, just in case we need to move out fast. What happens if they identify me as a cop?”

“I’m going for a fast boat ride without you, I suppose,” Molly teased. “All right, I will stay put. But we still need to get going. Here; I made you a cup of coffee.” She handed a steaming travel cup to the ruffled Sam. “You can have a few sips while the engines get warmed up. Then I need you up there on the anchor. I’ll get my charts. Want an orange? I don’t have much on board.”

“No, this is good for now.” Sam smiled gratefully as he sipped the hot coffee.

His eyes were still heavy from a rough night spent in the deck chair where he’d fallen asleep contemplating the midnight sky and Lee’s path to death. He moved groggily forward to the pulpit and waited for Molly’s signal for him to start raising the anchor.

Soon, Hullabaloo was underway, moving slowly into the south-bound channel of the Cape Fear River. They passed many north-bound snowbirds traveling back from their wintering-over places: Caribbean islands, warm waters, beaches, grandchildren. Each boat had the same brown-bearded stain at the waterline, a tell-tale sign of Intracoastal Waterway travelers. Some slowed down to limit their wakes as they passed Hullabaloo; some didn’t. Most kept to their side of the channel with the occasional exception of a fast power-boater rushing to beat a bridge closing up ahead.

Sam noted that the majority of motor-boaters waved, while a good number of sail-boaters sneered. He mused that the rift between stink potters and rag boaters would never be mended, each thinking their kind was somehow better. Logically, Sam knew that all boaters shared an enjoyment of being on the water regardless of their crafts. But being a longtime sailor himself, he found he made the same generalizations that everyone else did, even if they weren’t true. Narrow-mindedness comes in many forms, he thought, smiling.

Molly was comfortable at the wheel, often steering with her feet while sipping her coffee. She maintained a steady speed, frequently checking the radar and the buoys behind her to be sure she was well within the channel’s unseen boundaries. When she found she drifted too far to starboard, she corrected her course and marked the drift and current point on a large chart beside her, which was held in place by two glass brick-like objects.

Watching her carefully, Sam asked for an explanation. “What are those things? And what are you doing?”

“These?” Molly nodded to the glass bricks. “They’re ballast from some ancient ship. Several years ago, I was fishing with friends in a creek near the Fort Fisher Ferry landing. I cast my line too close to the shore and it got tangled up in the roots of an old tree. When I was untangling it, I found these. When ships used to ply these waters, they used ballast to fill their holds for better sailing, just like the lead in sailboat keels today. When they reached port and got a full cargo hold for the next destination, the ship’s crew would throw the ballast overboard. Some colonial cities used the stuff for paving streets or building foundations, or for building wharves. These glass bricks found their way into the tree’s roots, and as the tree grew up and out of the bank near water over the last century or so, the bricks were exposed. There were others, but I left some there for somebody else to discover. Pretty cool, huh?” She smiled as she held up one for Sam’s inspection. “I’ve used them for a few years now, and they work well to hold charts in place. I sometimes think electronic gadgets like a GPS would be a great help, but I like the look and feel of the paper charts. These charts are old, so I continually update them when I find different depths or current pulls, like the one we just passed through.” She gestured to scribble on the chart. “I also mark anchorages, like the one we stayed at last night. It’s a lot easier to know where you’re going to stay at the end of a long day’s cruise.”

“You’ve cruised a lot?”

“Not as much as I always thought I would. Taking out a boat like this costs money, and her upkeep ain’t cheap, either.”

“Reminds me of a few women I’ve dated along the way,” Sam chuckled.

“Yeah, we women like our paint and powder, but this one’s worth it.” Molly patted the helm lovingly.

“Have you owned this boat long?”

“She was my dad’s,” Molly said after a moment.

“I thought you said you grew up on a farm,” Sam quizzed.

“We did. Well, for a while, anyway. My parents tried lots of houses, lots of lifestyles. This one, living on a boat, was a great idea to my father, but my mother wasn’t fond of the idea. It took me years to restore her, and I probably will be working on her for a few years more. I always thought…. Never mind.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Watching Molly’s smile fade, Sam let it go. He headed below in search of something to eat and came back to the pilothouse with a box of crackers.

“Seasick?” Molly asked.

“Hungry. You know, there’s a pretty decent coffee shop and a pricey little grocery store on Bald Head, if you want to go over there before we go to Johnson’s.”

“No, thanks. There’s a place just beyond Southport, though. It’s a good marina, and I think there’s a little village. We’ll get something there,” Molly said. “I didn’t know we’d be taking a little trip; otherwise, I would have stocked up. My life’s been a little out of kilter since I met you.”

Sam watched Molly for signs of how he should interpret her remark. “Yeah, things have been a little crazy these past few days. Did I tell you I got suspended? I’m a suspect in Lee’s death.”

Shock registered on Molly’s face. “No freaking way! Are you kidding me?”

“Nope.”

“Who do you think tossed your boat?”

“I don’t know. But paybacks are coming, whoever did it.”

“Do you think the gorillas in Navassa took your truck apart by now?”

“Probably.” A sly smile crept across Sam’s face. “For the first time, I’m thankful for that damn duck. Without her, my boat would be trashed again.”

“What do you mean?”

“The gorillas won’t find the boat when they come looking because I got kicked out of the marina for having a pet on board,” Sam laughed. “Imagine that; the duck was useful after all!” Sam stretched out his legs triumphantly at the thought. “Mind if I take the helm for a while?”

“No problem,” Molly answered, moving away from the wheel and down to the galley to refill her coffee cup.