A Story Of The Sea

A Story Of he Sea

By

Francis O'Reilly

Copyright 2013 Francis J. O’Reilly

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Jacket Illustration by David O’Reilly

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CHAPTER I Off The Jersey Coast

The wind had shifted. The Penelope rolled to accept a following breeze. Josh snuggled down in his bunk while he thought about the wind. The sea was rocking the Penelope like a cradle. Josh's eyelids closed and Josh was again asleep.

Hundreds of miles south of the Penelope, off North Carolina's Outer Banks, a low-pressure gradient nudged the eye of a late-season tropical storm out to sea. Sucking up the still-warm waters of the Atlantic Ocean, the storm gathered strength. The winds circled counter-clockwise around the eye, stirring up waves for hundreds of miles to the north and west.

On the Penelope's deck, Josh's father, a well-built man of medium height, with curly black hair and leathery skin, tested the tiller he had lashed dead amidships when he came on watch at midnight. The sea had begun to tug at the rudder, trying to nudge the Penelope on a course that offered less resistance. Left to the mercy of wind and sea, gentle as they may be now, Abraham Spendlow knew the elements could quickly turn ugly and drive his small craft onto one of the barrier islands that protected the mainland of New Jersey from the pounding sea.

Glancing at the eastern sky, the skipper muttered, It's time, and walked forward to waken his sons. Josh was not quite twelve, but he sat up in his cot as soon as his father's hand gripped his shoulder. I'm awake, he whispered, swinging his feet onto the cold oak deck of the small fo'c'sle

See your brother gets up, too, his father said with a small laugh. Mordecai Spendlow, Mort to all who knew him, was sixteen and would be a carbon copy of his father when he was fully grown. Like most boys his age, he never wanted to get up early in the morning. Josh liked this weakness, since morning was the only time of day he got a chance to bully his older brother.

Josh slipped into his britches and folded his blanket. Then he turned to his brother. Get up, get up, he sang. His fingers sought out Mort's stomach and beat a tattoo Josh knew would tickle his brother out of sleep. The trick was to duck under the right hook Mort always threw and get up on deck before his brother could catch him. Both boys knew it wouldn't pay to horse around in front of their father when at sea.

On deck, Josh glanced at sea and sky with an experienced eye. Storm coming, Dad, he yelled in a voice that was half statement half question. Without waiting for a reply, he strode to the small deck house built a little aft of the mainmast. On this voyage, Josh was sailing for old Danny, his father's long-term hand, and old Danny always did the cooking.

Josh! His father's voice stopped him as he was about to step down into the deck house. Mort and I will see what we can catch in our nets while the weather holds. We'll breakfast on board, but put some grub in the skiffs so we can stay out through lunch."

With a smart Aye, aye, sir, Josh disappeared into the deck house. Actually, half the deck house was below the deck, so the roof did not get in the way of the mainsail's boom. It was entered from the stern, so the deck house and the below decks didn't flood when the prow dipped into a rough sea. The captain gained access to his cabin in the stern by stepping down into the deck house, then turning and descending four more steps. Josh avoided those steps and went to the sea stove, built into the counter on the starboard side of the boat.

Old Danny's chief responsibility, Josh's responsibility on this voyage, was to keep the charcoal in the stove lit. Taking a few pieces from a box under the counter, Josh placed them on the graying remains of the night's fire. Picking up a small hand blower, he worked the bellows to bring the coals to life and spread the flames to the fragments of charcoal he had just added. Then, opening a cask, he ladled fresh water into a kettle and set it to boil.

Breakfast in fifteen minutes, he shouted as he stuck his head out of the deck house. Hard tack and mush all around, his brother added from amidships, getting a cheerful dig in at his brother who only knew how to cook mush. And tea, don't forget the tea. his father called. Mush, hard tack and tea, a meal that will really stick to your bones, Josh laughed, to show he could take a joke, even if the sun had yet to come over the horizon.

A sudden bang from the deck house caused Josh to duck back inside the deck house in time to catch bowls and mugs before they fell off the counter. Sea's getting rougher, he murmured to himself. "I'd better get the food ready before the waves get much higher.

Josh grabbed a clean, well almost clean, rag and wiped out a large copper pan. As he bent to his work, a distorted face glanced back at him. His light brown hair reflected well, just darkened a touch by the red tint of the copper pan. His eyes were brown, but their reflection was too small to show much more than two black dots in a thin face. With a shrug, Josh put the pan on the counter and then fingered his chin.

Nothing yet, Mort asked as he dropped into the deck house.

Caught in a private moment, Josh felt a blush rising. Purposely misinterpreting Mort's remark, Josh turned to fill a bowl with corn mush. Bring this up to Dad, he commanded in a tone designed to hide his embarrassment. "I'll bring the tea.

Balancing the three cups and his own bowl, Josh edged slowly up the narrow steps, staggering ever so slightly as the Penelope heaved to a rogue wave.

It's going to blow a bit before sundown, the boys' father remarked as they sat on the roof of the deck house and spooned down their breakfast.

Those clouds are moving awfully fast. Mort was studying the sky.

And the wind shifted to come from the northeast just before dawn, added Josh. We can still get in a few hours with the nets. He spoke knowingly, but didn't see the smile creep over his father's face as he spoke. Our hold isn't nearly as full as it should be.

All that is true, his father encouraged his sons to form their own opinions about the sea and the business of fishing and,as a teacher, he wanted to guide their thinking and emphasize proper caution. "I don't want to be caught out here if a nor'easter blows up, but we are fishermen.

And fishermen fish, Mort added.

So, let's get the skiffs over the side. Josh wasn't about to show any fear in front of his older brother.

Sixteen years old, Mort had already reached his full height, a compact five foot ten inches. With arms and legs thoroughly muscled from hard work, he tipped the scales at a solid one hundred fifty pounds. Josh had to admit his brother was all he, himself, wanted to be.

The Penelope wasn't a large ship. Originally built as a sloop for the coastal trade, every inch of space on the open deck was spoken for. Only forty-four feet from stem to stern, her single mast was stepped slightly forward of midships. Hatches lashed down for the night covered the openings to the two holds, each now half full of salted fish. Over the forward hatch lay two small boats, one inside the other. It was from these frail craft Mort and his father did the actual fishing.

A fisherman like his father before him, Abraham Spendlow had spent thirty of his forty years dragging cod, weakfish and bass from the ocean off the Jersey coast. Many times he had been tempted to follow the larger boats to the Grand Banks off far-away Newfoundland, but the Penelope couldn't store enough fish to make the trip profitable. He had been there once, as a young deck hand. The sea was rough and the men who fished the Grand Banks were rougher. He swelled with pride and a tinge of regret as he thought of those long-ago adventures. Truth be told, he was content, now, to stay within a day's sail of home. With his boys, though, he knew it would be different.

Other skippers had told him Mort was looking for an open berth and a chance to experience more of the world than the Penelope could offer. Josh would follow in a few years. It was the way of life. Abraham could only hope his boys would return to carry on the family business, perhaps skippering their own versions of the Penelope.

Abraham and Mort lifted the larger of the skiffs over the side, careful to time their movements so they could ease the craft into the crest of a wave, rather than risking a potentially damaging drop into the trough between the waves.

Tie her up, his father yelled to Josh as he and Mort reached for the smaller of the two boats, which had been nested inside the larger boat. By the time they had launched the second boat, Josh had stowed a net in the first boat and was now setting its oars in their locks.

Follow us, the skipper yelled to Josh, but don't bring the Penelope so close you scare the fish."

Even in the heaving sea, Abraham Spendlow could see a darker patch formed by a school of fish just below the surface. The skiffs could skim over the school without giving the fish a hint of danger. The Penelope, with her greater draft, could cut through the school, scattering fish as the prow cut through their mass.

Net coming, his father yelled as he tossed one edge of the net to Mort. Father and son each hooked one corner of the net to their boats and let the net sunk like a curtain into the sea. Both fingered lines tied to the bottom edge of the sunken net, testing for the weight of fish brushing against the net. Mort kept a watchful eye on his father. It took years to hone the skill needed to judge just when the net held the right amount of fish. If there were too few fish, they would have to let the net down again and let the fish become accustomed to it. If the net held too many fish, it might easily break as Josh hauled it aboard the Penelope. This morning, the increasingly rough sea made fishing with the net even more difficult as Mort and his father struggled to keep their boats on station. To add danger to their predicament, heavy black clouds were rolling in on the small craft, threatening to turn day into night.

This isn't working, Dad, Mort yelled over the space between the boats. The wind keeps pushing me away from you and I keep losing sight of the Penelope.

Right. And it looks like your brother is having trouble keeping station, too, his father yelled back. We have too few fish, though.

On board the Penelope, Josh had trimmed the jib sail and his thoughts now turned to the sea anchor his father had ordered deployed the night before. A standard precaution when a small craft closed down for the night, his father had automatically hauled it in when they began the daily routine. Now, Josh decided to deploy it again to help keep the Penelope on station behind the skiffs.

Should I sound the recall, Josh wondered. The Penelope's fog horn dangled from a rope tied to the roof of the deck house. He shielded his eyes from the wind and squinted out across the water. The skiffs were well within range of the fog horn, but the distance was opening.

As he looked, rain began to fall. The wind rose and with it the seas. Surely Dad knows when to return, Josh thought. Right now, it's my job to keep the Penelope on station.

As if the gathering storm was reading his thoughts and resolved to make his life more difficult, the rain began to fall harder and, driven by the strong winds, sting hands and face. Already soaked to the skin, Josh ducked into the deck house to grab an oilskin hat that would at least help keep the water out of his eyes. Returning to the deck in less than a minute, he peered into the gloom of the storm.

Dad, where are you, he asked himself. His fingers went to the fog horn. Taking a deep breath, he blew a single low note, the waited. Come on Dad, he murmured as he listened for a return call. Minutes went by, then he sounded another bass note. More minutes, and again no return blast.

Perhaps they drifted too far away, Josh told himself. Or maybe I've drifted away from them. Either possibility frightened Josh, but he was determined not to give way to thoughts of what might have gone wrong.

The Penelope carried a small cannon, a swivel gun used to send signals beyond the range of the fog horn and, rarely, to warn off wreckers who were not above stealing a catch at gun point. The gun itself was heavy, though, and Josh wasn't sure he could mount it for use on the heaving deck.

The boat had started to drag the sea anchor he had just launched. Little more than a canvas bucket on the end of a rope, it worked with the jib sail and tiller to keep the boat from drifting too far from its intended course. What was he to do, Josh wondered. If he set sail in an attempt to locate his father and his brother, he was more likely to sail past them than to find them. If he stayed where he was, and the Penelope was certainly moving, could his father find the boat. Thoroughly worried, but confident in his ability to handle the boat in a storm, he chose to do all he could do and raised the fog horn to his lips. Blast followed blast at measured intervals, interspersed with prayers for divine assistance.

Ahoy the boat, the call fought through the wind, faint, but clear.

Ahoy the boats, Josh yelled back, rushing to the rail and peering into the rain. Dad, he yelled. Mort, he asked.

We're both here, his father's voice boomed through the storm, and we've managed to hold on to a small catch.

Are we fishermen or are we fishermen, Mort joked as he hooked his small craft on to the Penelope's rail.

Aye, but pretty nearly dead ones, his father said as he hooked his boat to the rail a short distance from Mort's boat. We'll not be pulling a stunt like that again. The tone of his voice belied his stern words and both his sons smiled. The boys knew their father enjoyed the thrill of danger overcome as much as they did. It was just their father, as a responsible parent and captain, could not admit it.

It's just a small catch, Abraham Spendlow said as he climbed on to the deck, but we have to get it aboard pretty fast or we'll lose it.

Yes, sir, said Josh as he grabbed the end of a line and began to climb the main stays. The Penelope was rigged fore and aft, with a mainsail extending back from the main mast. This sail could swing in a two hundred seventy degree arc to catch the slightest whisper of a breeze. Forward of the main mast were a spanner and a jib sail, both fixed fore and aft.

At the high point, where the mainsail clung to the mast, the skipper had mounted a short boom and tackle to serve as a hoist. The line was wet through, but Josh threaded it through the block as easily as if it were dry. Line coming down, he shouted into the wind and then watched as his brother balanced himself in the small boat as it rocked on the waves and grabbed the line.

Working quickly, Mort looped the line around one corner of the net, then threaded the remainder of the line through the other three corners and tied them together with a slip knot. This left the fourth corner free so the net formed a giant scoop.

Lift, he shouted, and his father heaved on the line, lifting the net and its contents and swinging it over a shallow sink between the holds. Josh had dropped down from the rigging in time to slip the knot and spill fish into the sink. That done, he and Mort untied the remainder of the net and rolled it for storage under the ship's gunwales.

It's time to head for home, the skipper said as the three of them stood by the open sink and gauged the value of their most recent catch.

Hardly worth the risk, was it Dad, said Mort. Josh kept quiet. He was still learning the money side of the business.

We'll head for the Delaware Bay, the skipper said. "You two clean and store the catch as soon as we get the sails set.

I'll get the sea anchor in, said Josh.

And I'll raise the spinnaker, Mort added.

These tasks were quickly done. Josh had only to pull on the line attached to the bottom of the sea anchor to spill its contents. The empty bucket bounced easily through the waves.

Ready to set sail, the skipper asked. Both boys raised their right arms to signal their readiness, then hauled on the ropes to raise the mainsail. Freed of its lashings, the giant canvas triangle flapped madly in the wind, causing the Penelope to lean hard on its port side. Abraham Spendlow had unleashed the tiller and now threw all his weight on it to keep the Penelope from floundering while the sail flapped free. Despite the wind and the rough sea, all went well and the Penelope settled