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Sea Tales IV: David's great adventure
By Dave Roper
Everyone showed up right on time that cold (-7 degrees F) January day at Pickering Wharf in Salem, Mass. All eight men were there for the First Annual Middle-Aged Men Tell Sea Stories in the Cabin of a Frozen Sailboat in the Middle of the Winter Annual Luncheon (see Parts I, II and III in the midwinter, April and June issues of Points East). I'd arrived early, opened the cockpit tarp a bit to welcome the expected guests, heated Elsa Marie's frozen cabin to a pleasant 60 degrees, and laid out snacks, lunch, and liquid sea story-rendering supplies (rum).
As the stories kept flowing, it was easy to see that no one was enjoying the luncheon more than Grampy, my 88-year-old father and an experienced Maine cruiser in his own right. With a small stack of two-year-old Hershey's Kisses he'd brought along as his contribution to the hors d'oeuvres, alongside his "medicine bottle" (whisky), he sat smiling in the corner by the bulkhead, his good ear cocked towards Bryan, the second storyteller.
No one is ever sure how much Grampy actually takes in (since he's really deaf as a rock), but he's become a master of looking as if he's right with you each word of the way. Sometimes, though, he gives himself away, especially when, like the kid picked from the back row of class, he's suddenly asked a question right from the moment at hand. This is what happened here.
"Dad," I asked after Bryan finished his great tale of Chang Ho's epic voyage (June issue), "do you take that as viable?"
"No, don't need it," came Grampy's quick reply.
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| | Photo courtesy David Roper |
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Grampy, on board Phyllis, watches David soloing his shoal-draft Sea Star toward Nantucket. |
Everyone looked over quizzically at Grampy. The confusion from his response quieted things down momentarily. "Don't need what Dad?" I asked.
"Viagra . . . don't need it at my age, just take Coumadin to keep my blood thin, prevents more strokes Ð but no Viagra." He smiled. "What's all this Viagra business got to do with Bryan's story, anyway?"
It seemed to be the right time for Dad to tell a story rather than "hear" one, so I asked, "Dad, how about your sea story?" Grampy now had full stage.
"David is lost at sea!"
Well, not too many real adventures, despite 50 or so years on the Gulf of Maine. Your mother and I were pretty careful on the old Phyllis, our wooden cutter. It was tougher then, of course, without all this newfangled guidance technology you have now. Many times we weren't at all sure where we were. But that was fine. Eventually, if you wait long enough, the fog lifts. Always has. Just takes patience. And we had each other and that nice old wooden cutter to wait it out on Ôtil some land appeared. Sometimes we'd row ashore and just poke around Ôtil we found out what land it was. So no, there were no real problems or sea stories, I guess.
It appeared he was done. A collective groan came from the audience.
"Come on Grampy," someone said, "you must have one sea story. You have to, in order to be invited to this luncheon."
Grampy was carefully peeling open another Hersey's Kiss. He put it down, took a sip of his whiskey, and looked up. "Well, there was the time a kitten climbed through the porthole and jumped into the bunk with your mother when we were tied to a dock. Or the time, down in the Everglades, when on our old trawler, a snake came up through the head. Bothered Mrs. Roper to no end, that one. But those aren't sea stories." Then he looked over at me and flashed a big grin.
You, he said, pointing in my direction. Probably my biggest sea story involved you. Or the disappearance of you. Then he looked over at my oldest brother, Skip. And you . . . you knew where he was all the time. You knew he wasn't lost at sea.
Now Grampy had a rapt audience.
Well, it all began back when David was about 16 or 17 and he had that 23-foot sloop with that fine Palmer four-cylinder. Little cabin with a couple of bunks. Boat worried me, as she was an unballasted centerboarder and sailed poorly. But that engine was wonderful. Anyway, David had been reading that book about the boy who sailed around the world, found the girl partway, and became a hero in National Geographic. Guess David wanted to be like him, but maybe on a smaller scale.
So he got this boat, Sea Star, for $1,500, I recall. He wanted to set out for the summer. Alone. Well, his mother and I thought it best we sail south in company, David on his Sea Star and us in the old Phyllis. So that's what we did. Worked our way from Marblehead to Hingham, on to Plymouth, the Canal, and then Cataumet. Then over to the Vineyard and then to Nantucket. Kid did pretty well, too. But he wanted to just keep going, and our vacation was nearing an end. So we parted in Nantucket, with strict instructions to him that he leave messages via pay phone to a friend of ours ashore, and then we could call that friend when we got ashore each night and get an update on David.
Grampy looked over at me, and then to my brothers.
You're mother wasn't too happy about any of this, he said, but I remembered being 16 once and my own romantic yearnings, so it was a split vote. Well, David stayed in Nantucket for a day after we left, then he left for new horizons (I forget where). Anyway, fog came in thick and he got terribly lost. And this is what started it all.
Grampy leaned forward and slid some Hershey's Kisses across the table to other guests. "Please, my hors d'oeuvres are to share," he said. He held up a piece of the stale, chalky chocolate. "Really not bad if you wash them down quick."
"Started what?" someone asked Grampy, who continued.
Oh, David being lost at sea and all. You see, after his mother and I left Nantucket, we called our friend to get David's messages. Only there weren't any. So we waited a day and called again. No messages. So we called the dockmaster back in Nantucket who knew where he'd been anchored before we left. No boat. So we waited another day and called again. Then another. And another. Then we decided to call the harbormasters at the harbors he might stop at and see if they'd seen the boat. No luck. Then, finally, we called the Coast Guard and gave them a description of David, his boat, even his clothes.
Grampy shook his head. This was not calming to his mother, believe me, he said. Whereas with me, I figured, well, that's what three kids are for; you know, in case you lose one or two along the way. Safety in numbers, I said to his mother one night when she was contemplating the worst. I was only trying to put a good use to one of her favorite phrases. Bad timing.
After about five or six days, and no luck from the Coast Guard's search, we decided to call our other two boys and tell them the bad news about David. His middle brother, Chris, whom he fought with a lot, took the news pretty well. Then it was time to call Skip, David's oldest brother. I repeated what I said to Chris: "Skip, I have some sad news," I said. "You're brother David is lost at sea."
No he's not, Skip shot back. I just had dinner with him last night at a Chinese restaurant in Hyannis.
Well, Grampy continued, after we finally reached David via the dockmaster at the Hyannis Yacht Club, we got the whole story. Seems that after six or seven hours of being lost in the Sound, David came across a slow moving dragger and simply followed it. It went into Hyannis. So did David. Then, somehow, the girl part of his dream came true, just like with that around-the-world kid in National Geographic. Off they went to a secluded cove together, time stood still I guess, and that was the end of his memory regarding his parents. Not that I can blame him, Grampy winked; girls will do that.
"Did you tell him to come right home, Grampy?" someone asked.
Well, his mother did, he answered. And in no uncertain terms! As for me, I kind of hoped he would take his time along the way. You don't get too many of those kinds of summers or those kinds of journeys. Better to make them long. His eyes sparkled. He grinned. He seemed lost for a moment, perhaps in his own teenage memories or yearnings from seven decades before.
Dave Roper lives in Marblehead, Mass., and sails his 31-foot Independence sloop Elsa Marie out of nearby Salem. This has been the fourth in a series of articles by Dave, whose mission in life is to revive the lost art of telling tall tales.
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