the opposite side of the pier, Howard talked to his best friend, Abner 's yeoman Wilson. Wilson was a large man with an ordinarily chalky face, and his voice, ordinarily gruff, was still thin with a particular memory.
"The helm couldn't have been locked tighter if it was lashed," Wilson said. "He had this crazy quick-release gear that came down over the helm like a pair of hands. I never felt so spooky in my life."
If a dinosaur had appeared at prayer in Saint Peter's, it would have been only a little more remarkable than discovering a lobsterman underway seventy miles offshore and vaguely headed in the direction of Georges.
"It was wallowing along, making maybe one knot," said Wilson. "We'd been towing Ezekiel for an hour. The old man had just settled on the towing speed."
In the afternoon sun, but with rolling mist up to Abner 's stern, the small lobsterman was like a remote, black and gray pinprick of solitude struggling toward the mist. Among those hermits who deal in lobster, those men who seek remoteness and silence as well as a catch, this lobsterman seemed hard-headedly intent on insisting that one could not have enough of a good thing. The boat rose and fell easily in a light swell. As cutter Abner approached, some quirk of monkish defiance seemed to turn the lobsterman across Abner 's path. As the vessels closed, a collision course developed. Abner took off speed. The lobster boat moved as purposely across Abner 's bow as might a small animal pursue its excursions across the face of a mountain and under a formation of clouds.
"No one aboard," Wilson said. "Our cap put over the small boat and our guys ran it down."
The lobsterman, locking his helm in the bleak waters that splashed against the dark islands that surrounded his trade, setting his speed like a hum to underline his solitude, had been pulling traps. The slowly moving boat closed on the marker buoy. The lobsterman plucked the line from the water and took a turn on a cleat. The low speed of the boat broke the trap loose from the bottom. The technique saved some hauling, and it was common practice; but this time the man missed the cleat, doubtless had a turn of line over his hand, and the trap dragged him overboard. The boat, still under way, left him struggling in icy water, in combat with his high boots; a struggle that was small in that wet vastness that closed, empty and complete, over the final solitude.
"We had such an eerie feeling," Wilson said, "but the worst of it came later."
News of "the worst of it" spread to Adrian like the chill of ice fog rolling toward and over an anchored vessel. News of "the worst of it" traveled to the Base, thence across the million-dollar bridge to the bars of Portland, along the piers and into the trawlers, the lobster boats, and, subsequently, south through the fishing fleet. It became a sea story. There was no conversation so light, so ridiculous or so gay that could not be stilled by mention of the lobster boat Hester C .
Lamp's leonine head was filled with auguries. He told stories of the Bermuda Triangle. He talked to the hobbling Indian Conally, asking after ancient spirit tales that might help him form a complete theory.
"Maybe some of the old people know," Conally said doggedly. "I never paid no attention to that stuff."
"'Tis coming on to winter."
Dane, who had seen a thousand frightened seamen, was unimpressed. He blustered and threatened.
Howard reluctantly admitted that he felt the gray chill. Glass sarcasmed at himself for a sudden urge to speak Yiddish.
Brace, both then and earlier, was occupied with other matters, matters so personal and intense that no sea story could penetrate his unhappiness.
With stiff green hair and stiff dungarees, Brace cleaned paint for three days in the sun. At night he was allowed to remove his clothes and sleep in a paint-stained bunk. Dane was scrupulous. Not a fleck of paint escaped him. On a dozen occasions Brace swore that he was finished, and Dane found more
"The helm couldn't have been locked tighter if it was lashed," Wilson said. "He had this crazy quick-release gear that came down over the helm like a pair of hands. I never felt so spooky in my life."
If a dinosaur had appeared at prayer in Saint Peter's, it would have been only a little more remarkable than discovering a lobsterman underway seventy miles offshore and vaguely headed in the direction of Georges.
"It was wallowing along, making maybe one knot," said Wilson. "We'd been towing Ezekiel for an hour. The old man had just settled on the towing speed."
In the afternoon sun, but with rolling mist up to Abner 's stern, the small lobsterman was like a remote, black and gray pinprick of solitude struggling toward the mist. Among those hermits who deal in lobster, those men who seek remoteness and silence as well as a catch, this lobsterman seemed hard-headedly intent on insisting that one could not have enough of a good thing. The boat rose and fell easily in a light swell. As cutter Abner approached, some quirk of monkish defiance seemed to turn the lobsterman across Abner 's path. As the vessels closed, a collision course developed. Abner took off speed. The lobster boat moved as purposely across Abner 's bow as might a small animal pursue its excursions across the face of a mountain and under a formation of clouds.
"No one aboard," Wilson said. "Our cap put over the small boat and our guys ran it down."
The lobsterman, locking his helm in the bleak waters that splashed against the dark islands that surrounded his trade, setting his speed like a hum to underline his solitude, had been pulling traps. The slowly moving boat closed on the marker buoy. The lobsterman plucked the line from the water and took a turn on a cleat. The low speed of the boat broke the trap loose from the bottom. The technique saved some hauling, and it was common practice; but this time the man missed the cleat, doubtless had a turn of line over his hand, and the trap dragged him overboard. The boat, still under way, left him struggling in icy water, in combat with his high boots; a struggle that was small in that wet vastness that closed, empty and complete, over the final solitude.
"We had such an eerie feeling," Wilson said, "but the worst of it came later."
News of "the worst of it" spread to Adrian like the chill of ice fog rolling toward and over an anchored vessel. News of "the worst of it" traveled to the Base, thence across the million-dollar bridge to the bars of Portland, along the piers and into the trawlers, the lobster boats, and, subsequently, south through the fishing fleet. It became a sea story. There was no conversation so light, so ridiculous or so gay that could not be stilled by mention of the lobster boat Hester C .
Lamp's leonine head was filled with auguries. He told stories of the Bermuda Triangle. He talked to the hobbling Indian Conally, asking after ancient spirit tales that might help him form a complete theory.
"Maybe some of the old people know," Conally said doggedly. "I never paid no attention to that stuff."
"'Tis coming on to winter."
Dane, who had seen a thousand frightened seamen, was unimpressed. He blustered and threatened.
Howard reluctantly admitted that he felt the gray chill. Glass sarcasmed at himself for a sudden urge to speak Yiddish.
Brace, both then and earlier, was occupied with other matters, matters so personal and intense that no sea story could penetrate his unhappiness.
With stiff green hair and stiff dungarees, Brace cleaned paint for three days in the sun. At night he was allowed to remove his clothes and sleep in a paint-stained bunk. Dane was scrupulous. Not a fleck of paint escaped him. On a dozen occasions Brace swore that he was finished, and Dane found more
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