Adapted from the digital recorder of Private Investigator, Justin Roberts recorded July 27, 1104 hours.
Trying to keep up with my notes. I’m closing in. I rented a boat from Dinger’s Rentals and am on my way to finally nab my quarry. The last time I steered a motor boat was at some county fair back when I was a kid. So Martha Dinger was a bit wary about letting me out on my own. “No more than ten-horsepower. Can’t hurt much with that,” she said.
The best thing that I can say about the boat is that it floated. But, from what I could tell, Bickles Island was not much over a mile away with a few tiny islands separating it from the mainland. Here the odd thing: On the chart, Bickles Island is identified as Ruby Island. Back at the Days Inn I googled Bickles and it told me it was really Ruby Island and that the name was changed to Bickles Island during World War II in honor of General Bickles, who was born in a tent on Ruby Island, when his mom went into labor while camping there with her husband, back in the early twenties. Unfortunately, the name was never changed on the chart.
Minutes after leaving Dinger’s Rentals, I watched fog rolling toward me and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. I took a compass heading on the third island, crossed my fingers and held a steady course. In a matter of minutes I was wrapped in a cloak of fog so thick I could barely see the front of the boat. What the hell was I doing here? I throttled back just far enough to just keep moving, knowing full well that making Bickle Island was only a matter of luck. Feeling like the boat was just sitting there, I goosed the throttle and plowed onward.
In a few minutes the boat made an awful crunching sound then stopped so suddenly that I was nearly tossed overboard. The engine made a terrible metallic sound and died. I looked over the side to see floating flecks of fiberglass amidst the seaweed that surrounded the boat. I’d found a rock and the damn boat was taking on water. I was livid, but what the hell was I supposed to do. I wasn’t going to drown, especially with an outgoing tide, which in a matter of ten minutes had me and the boat sitting solidly aground, surrounded by a garden of rocks covered with seaweed or algae or something. The fog lifted for a minute, enough for me to see that I was on the rim of an island. What island was the big question. I jammed the chart into my back pack and headed ashore.
Getting off the boat was like trying to ice skate for the first time: flailing arms, gyrating hips, falling, while slipping and sliding my way to the shoreline. I looked back at the wretched boat sitting catawampus on a bed of rocks.
Covered in green slime, I pushed through a mosquito-laden forest with undergrowth thick enough to challenge a groundhog. Thank God for the insect repellant, otherwise I’d need a blood transfusion. In the distance, I heard music, changed direction and headed for what accounted for civilization on an island in Maine. Clearing a patch of thorny wet brambles, I walked into a clearing with small cabins placed here and there. “Hello there,” came from my left, where a fellow in coveralls was coming my way. “Name’s Fabinham, Hibernian Fabinham. People call me Hi,” he said, “Mother was Irish, but I suppose you guessed that already,” he giggled. “What brings you to True?”
“True what?” I asked.
“This here island. That’s what we call it, True. Me and the wife rent out cabins. Island Vacations, we call it. If you’re looking for one, well, that’s too bad because we don’t open up for another week. Awful late this year, but me and the wife, well, we had life get in the way.” Fabinham stepped back eying me from head to toe. “How’d you get here anyway? You sure didn’t walk although you look like maybe you tried. Those thorn apples are nothing to fool with lest you’re a rabbit.”
“Of course I didn’t walk. My boat’s over there,” I said with a flick of my hand.
“Well, there it is then,” is all he said to that. “How can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Bickle Island.”
“Bickle Island’s the next one down. Go west. Just a stone’s throw. Got a row boat at the dock. Use it if you want. No sense traipsing back to yours. Just follow the path,” he said, pointing to a well trodden path. Curiously enough he didn’t ask who I was or where I came from or why I was covered in green slime. Maine hospitality, I guess. Or was I expected?
I figured that this Fabinham guy might be pulling a fast one, so I warily followed his directions. A short walk led me to a grassy picnic area at water’s edge. The fog had lifted enough for me to make out what was supposedly Bickle Island, about which was about two-hundred yards due west. A well used wooden row boat sat at what appeared to be a well kept dock. Low tide showed a sandbar about half way across.
At this point, I had given up trusting anybody, especially anybody living in or near Maine. Ginger back at the boat rental seemed innocent enough and consulting the chart, her advice seemed right on. But this Fabinham guy seemed as slippery as those rocks I just climbed over. I sat down on the picnic bench, spread out my chart and opened up my compass; it was time to do some orientation. The FBI gave us solid training in land navigation and while the charts are quite different, it was an easy transition to chart a course over water, especially given all the islands around here. Taking a bearing on the Portland fog signal and another on Bickle Island, I drew intersecting lines on the chart. If the bearings were correct, I should be on the western edge of True Island. It felt wrong. I knew the fog horn was spot-on. I checked out the plaque on the row boat which indicated that I was indeed on True Island. But according to my bearings, I was not looking at Bickle Island, but rather Base Island. Bickle was not west but almost due south. I’d had enough of these Mainers playing me for an idiot.
I took a bearing of 180 degrees and headed into the lifting fog.