she's bookmarked with a scrap of paper. “—says the
name of the schooner was The Queen’s Rose?”
Sara and I both look at each other, eyes wide.
“No,” I say. “It can't be.”
Sara finishes my sentence, “So Gus Emery wasn't
making any of it up. The name of the schooner he told us about was The Queen's Rose .”
Chapter 8
On Our Way
“ There's no way his story could
be true,” Sara says. “Gus Emery is just an old man trying to scare
some kids with ghost stories.”
“Ghost stories?” Jo asks. “What're y'all talking
about?”
While I keep steering the sailboat, Sara tells Jo
about our visit with Gus Emery. Jo keeps quiet, which I don't mind,
and lets Sara tell the whole story.
When Sara's done, Jo quietly says, “I have to agree;
it sounds like this ghost pirate might be real.”
Sara rolls her eye. “Not you too?”
“So now you’re on board with me about the ghost
pirates?” Fisher asks. “What gives?”
“From what y'all are telling me, there's too many
things that add up; the name of the schooner, the old man's story,
and that weird poem. Besides, I think I know a thing or two about
ghost ships. There's a lot of tales told on Hatteras Island,” Jo
says, “about ghosts and strange things on the water no one can
explain. A lot of boats have sunk off the cape. They don't call it
the Graveyard of the Atlantic for no good reason. And if
there’s one thing graveyards have is a lot of, it's ghosts. Why
couldn't there be ghost ships up here too?”
Off in the distance, straight off our bow, I can
start to see a strip of land by itself; it must be Damariscove
Island. But I can also see, something thin and white creeping
across off to the north tip of the island; fog. Pain-in-the-butt
fog. There's nothing worse than being in a sailboat when fog rolls
in. Noises become more intense the less you can see. It's like
being a blind person trying to cross a road never knowing if a car
is going to approach.
“Sara, do you see what I see,” I say pointing to the
north end of the island.
“We should be okay,” she says. “We're headed to the
south end of the island that looks like a lobster claw. There's a
deep cove that runs right up the middle quite a ways into the
island where we can anchor. It'll be a good place for our
boat.”
“Why's that?” Jo asks.
“Because,” Fisher says, “the chart shows there are
permanent mooring balls for people to tie their boats to.
Damariscove Island must be where boaters like to go for day trips
or tie up for the night. I guess we'll find out.”
Jo is now standing near the mast with binoculars up
to her eyes. “The island's still a long ways off, but from here it
doesn't look like much of an island; not even a tree.”
I'm keeping my eye on the fog to the north. It seems
to be devouring the island a little faster than I'd hoped. It'd be
nice to be at anchor before the fog engulfs the whole island.
I ask Sara, “Can you take a compass bearing where we
should enter the cove. I want to have some idea where to go in case
we don't make it there before the fog hits.” With the hand-held
compass aimed at the south end of Damariscove Island, Sara takes a
reading. After she's got a compass number, she goes below to write
it out on the paper chart so we don't forget. It's one thing that's
great about Sara, she's really good about details.
Fog can be sneaky especially if you're not paying
attention to it. One minute it's clear blue, and the next without
even realizing it, it can swallow you whole like some huge beast. I
had a little problem the last time I was sailing this same boat
offshore, I almost got run over. The scary part was, I could only
hear it, and not once did I ever see it because the fog was so
thick. I know it was a close call because the wake was huge and
knocked the sailboat around pretty good, so I know it must have
been a big vessel.
From below in the cabin, Sara calls up, “If I
plotted our position correctly, I would
name of the schooner was The Queen’s Rose?”
Sara and I both look at each other, eyes wide.
“No,” I say. “It can't be.”
Sara finishes my sentence, “So Gus Emery wasn't
making any of it up. The name of the schooner he told us about was The Queen's Rose .”
Chapter 8
On Our Way
“ There's no way his story could
be true,” Sara says. “Gus Emery is just an old man trying to scare
some kids with ghost stories.”
“Ghost stories?” Jo asks. “What're y'all talking
about?”
While I keep steering the sailboat, Sara tells Jo
about our visit with Gus Emery. Jo keeps quiet, which I don't mind,
and lets Sara tell the whole story.
When Sara's done, Jo quietly says, “I have to agree;
it sounds like this ghost pirate might be real.”
Sara rolls her eye. “Not you too?”
“So now you’re on board with me about the ghost
pirates?” Fisher asks. “What gives?”
“From what y'all are telling me, there's too many
things that add up; the name of the schooner, the old man's story,
and that weird poem. Besides, I think I know a thing or two about
ghost ships. There's a lot of tales told on Hatteras Island,” Jo
says, “about ghosts and strange things on the water no one can
explain. A lot of boats have sunk off the cape. They don't call it
the Graveyard of the Atlantic for no good reason. And if
there’s one thing graveyards have is a lot of, it's ghosts. Why
couldn't there be ghost ships up here too?”
Off in the distance, straight off our bow, I can
start to see a strip of land by itself; it must be Damariscove
Island. But I can also see, something thin and white creeping
across off to the north tip of the island; fog. Pain-in-the-butt
fog. There's nothing worse than being in a sailboat when fog rolls
in. Noises become more intense the less you can see. It's like
being a blind person trying to cross a road never knowing if a car
is going to approach.
“Sara, do you see what I see,” I say pointing to the
north end of the island.
“We should be okay,” she says. “We're headed to the
south end of the island that looks like a lobster claw. There's a
deep cove that runs right up the middle quite a ways into the
island where we can anchor. It'll be a good place for our
boat.”
“Why's that?” Jo asks.
“Because,” Fisher says, “the chart shows there are
permanent mooring balls for people to tie their boats to.
Damariscove Island must be where boaters like to go for day trips
or tie up for the night. I guess we'll find out.”
Jo is now standing near the mast with binoculars up
to her eyes. “The island's still a long ways off, but from here it
doesn't look like much of an island; not even a tree.”
I'm keeping my eye on the fog to the north. It seems
to be devouring the island a little faster than I'd hoped. It'd be
nice to be at anchor before the fog engulfs the whole island.
I ask Sara, “Can you take a compass bearing where we
should enter the cove. I want to have some idea where to go in case
we don't make it there before the fog hits.” With the hand-held
compass aimed at the south end of Damariscove Island, Sara takes a
reading. After she's got a compass number, she goes below to write
it out on the paper chart so we don't forget. It's one thing that's
great about Sara, she's really good about details.
Fog can be sneaky especially if you're not paying
attention to it. One minute it's clear blue, and the next without
even realizing it, it can swallow you whole like some huge beast. I
had a little problem the last time I was sailing this same boat
offshore, I almost got run over. The scary part was, I could only
hear it, and not once did I ever see it because the fog was so
thick. I know it was a close call because the wake was huge and
knocked the sailboat around pretty good, so I know it must have
been a big vessel.
From below in the cabin, Sara calls up, “If I
plotted our position correctly, I would
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