Journal Entry – 8/7/2015 – Therein lies the tale.
Fiction
So after a day of trolling along the shores of Mutiny Bay, looking for one of the elusive 25lb kings that apparently all of our friends had already caught and ate, we finally gave up and tried our luck with the fish and chips at Joe’s Fish Cafe next to the Bush Point boat launch.
By the time we found a table on the patio and gave the traditional toast to Kracken, the sun had already hidden behind the peaks of the Olympics and the sky had it’s orange to blue transition well under way.
As our order for “3 pieces with fries and coleslaw” was on its way to the kitchen, my fishing partner Ed, never strong in the conversation department, made the ultimate fisherman’s faux pas. He innocently asked “Why do we mindlessly follow that age old tradition of “toasting to Kracken?”.
I about panicked. You rarely discuss ancient fishermans traditions, and you never question this particular ritual in public. You just raise your glass to the setting sun and recite the words “To Kracken”.
The last time someone publicly challenged the authority of the sea or any of its legends was in an editorial in the local weekly newspaper of all places.
Now I don’t pretend to believe that spirits of the deep can read printed material, at least in English, but, word gets around. Sentiments get dispersed throughout the biosphere. It wasn’t long before that particular editor’s boat was found floating keel up off of Mutiny Bay on a calm morning. His body was never found. The paper retracted his editorial the next week. No more was said about it.
Now I don’t pretend to believe that spirits of the deep can read printed material, at least in English, but, word gets around. Sentiments get dispersed throughout the biosphere. It wasn’t long before that particular editor’s boat was found floating keel up off of Mutiny Bay on a calm morning. His body was never found. The paper retracted his editorial the next week. No more was said about it.
So for Ed, in a moment of doubt, to just blurt out a question like “Why do we…” in a public forum such as Joe’s Fish cafe, well, this is like a signed invitation to a watery death.
I was already shaking and I immediately began looking around for some other table to be at. Ed is my fishing buddy but not my soul mate. I’m not about to walk the plank with him.
Just then, the whole place kind of stiffened when a particularly pungent breeze of salt air filled the room.
A gravelly voice behind me said “I was there when it happened”.
Conversation at all the tables on the patio stopped mid sentence. The silence could be cut with a dull fillet knife.
A gravelly voice behind me said “I was there when it happened”.
Conversation at all the tables on the patio stopped mid sentence. The silence could be cut with a dull fillet knife.
Perspiration dripped down the back of my neck and along my spine like condensation on the side of a cold beer can. Escape was now impossible. I looked at the waitress and she read me like a script. Before I knew it another chair showed up at our table and a frosty Golden Mariner was served.
Our new guest was a spittin’ image of Captain Haddock in a Tin Tin story, right down to the double-breasted pea coat and Greek fishermans cap. His salty visage was a bit out of place in this sport fisherman’s hangout on a summer afternoon but the other patrons conspicuously avoided his gaze. The silence in the room belied everyone’s rapt attention.
Our guest didn’t seem to notice any of this. He just fixed an icy stare on Ed with the intent of a marine biologist studying a new species of bivalve. After a moment and a swig of his beer, he continued with his legend…
“Therein lies the tale of deceit, greed, theft, and maritime justice.
It wasn’t the crime of material that stirred the forces of the deep. That happens every day and has for centuries. The justice that was brought about by the courts of the fisheries settled a debt of the heart where no civil jurisdiction will rule.Seems that a down on his luck fisherman named Edward out of Astoria was forced to put his only remaining asset, the 36 foot wooden trawler Lucy Mae on the board to pay his debts at the local chandlery. The name Lucy Mae was shared by the boat and his wife. Lucy Mae the wife had inherited Lucy Mae the boat from her father when he passed several years earlier of natural causes. Edwards whole world was wrapped up in those two words, Lucy Mae.One day a city man came forward and offered to pay him in cash for the boat. The buyer was an out of towner, looking for a bargain to flip in the restoration market. When he saw Lucy Mae the women, he decided inside himself that he was buying the whole package, boat and wife.Of course, the bank and notary had no knowledge of the buyer’s internal terms for the deal. They just wrote up the new bill of sale for “Lucy Mae”.When the buyer took the boat out for a shake down cruise, he insisted that the wife go along as the official current owner of the boat. He motored the Lucy Mae past the breakwater, out over the bar, and into the open sea. He never turned back.Later that evening, long after the buyer should have returned from the shake down cruise with the Lucy Maes, a late summer storm blew in from the Pacific. It battered the shallow harbor waters and made the bar impassable. Edward was land bound feeling his double loss like a thirty pound danforth strapped to his back.The next day, when the seas had calmed, some of Edward’s friends gathered at the docks ready to setout a search party. They were planning on checking all of the little inlets along the coast, looking for evidence of either or both of the Lucy Maes. But before any of their kicker boats left their slips, word came down that the search was over. Lucy Mae the boat was found keel up on the rocky coast just past Whiskey Point. There were no bodies.About a week later, a woman was found wandering the beach, delirious and nearly out of her mind, 29 miles north of Astoria. She had no ID, no memory of who she was, and strange sucker marks along her arms and legs. She was taken to a nearby hospital for observation by the local sheriff.
As soon as the regional media got hold of the story, Edward was on his way to the small town hospital. He was sure that It could only be his real Lucy Mae.Once Lucy recovered her strength, Edward and Lucy took up apple farming in eastern Washington, where most of the water comes from a sprinkler head.
Lucy never could or would describe what happened aboard the wooden Lucy Mae other than the two words: storm and Kracken.”
With his second Ancient Mariner now past empty, the stranger pushed back his chair and walked out of the cafe, never looking back and never seen again.
I looked at Ed and squeaked out, “I hope you’re happy now.” Ed ordered us another round.
Jason, you create such rapid fire images with your words. You use unique words which bring moments of delight. Finally, I love the subtle humor laced throughout.
This story is pretty much formula campfire fare. The kernel of the plot was inspired by a recent drive along “Spyglass Lane” on Whidbey Island. At the time, I idly wondered how that particular street name originated. From there the story kind of wrote itself.
As an armchair author, I wrestled with writing a story within a story and keeping the two narratives related but distinct, thus the alternate fonts.
Professional editors wouldn’t put up with that kind of crap.
One reader asked if “Ed” and “Edward” were the same person. Maybe in some metaphysical way. A better effort on my part would have clarified the two characters and their co-mingled roles.
There is no deep philosophy intended here other than a vague continuity of haplessness throughout history.
Thanks all for the kind words. I’m glad you enjoyed the story.
-jgp