The Waterman: A Novel of the Chesapeake Bay (16 page)

Flying Cloud
jibed around the Ferry Neck mark and ran downwind.
Misty
followed, remaining just behind throughout the third leg of the race. The two boats matched each other in speed and balance, their outstretched sails full as they surfed the waves. Clay, leaning back to hold his sheet tight, began to study the river's mouth out past Bachelor Point, where the Choptank opened from the south and the waves ran rougher. The Town Creek mark was getting closer. The last leg of the race, the longest, was a tack out past Bachelor Point to the Benoni light. He scanned the shoreline and felt the change coming. “Barker,” he shouted, “after we round the mark, take us in toward shore. We'll run the shoreline.”

Barker looked at him as though he were crazy. Byron seemed confused as well, but then turned and said something to Barker. Then gradually a smile crossed Barker's face. “We'll lose minutes moving in that far,” he replied.

Clay shrugged.

Barker gave a thumbs-up. “Okay, Clay. You got that sixth sense workin', I can tell.”

They watched
Flying Cloud
round the Town Creek mark without a hitch and head straight out the channel. A minute later they
reached the buoy. The other boats were not in contention. Barker guided her around the mark smoothly.

“Let her fly,” Barker yelled. “We're heading for the shore.”

Misty
raced, angling for the shore, seemingly off course and losing precious distance to
Flying Cloud,
which ran out the river's middle straight for the finish. After several minutes, Barker gave the command and they veered toward the finish also, but they continued to hug the shoreline. “Tighten the sail, boys,” he yelled. “Bail, Lex, bail your heart out, boy.” The wind was still stiff, but the river here was calmer, and
Misty
seemed to pick up speed. They watched
Flying Cloud
. She had begun to pitch in the channel waves and stronger current. With each heave she lost wind from her sails. “The tide's changin', boys, and the wind and tide are at odds,” Barker hollered. “Out there in the channel it's much worse than in here. And they'll fight that tide the whole way. Goddamn you, Clay, boy,” he went on. “Goddamn, you can be right smart at times.”

Sailing smoothly now and balanced,
Misty
was gaining steadily. It looked like they were abreast of the other boat and then past her. But they still needed a fast tack back out to the finish line, and Clay wondered if they would build enough of a lead to win. They started angling back out. Barker was screaming a steady stream of epithets at his crew and at the wind, which was heeling them over. Then Clay noticed Matty pointing at him and gesturing, then starting to shout, his face changing complexion. It was at that moment that the Chris-Craft churned past them, coming from their rear, with no regard for the race or their delicate balance. Neither Clay nor Barker saw it coming, and its wake rocked them before they could prepare. The first wave nearly jolted Barker off the windward washboard and sent the bow angling around away from the wind. Clay let his sheet go, but Earl had wrapped his around a cleat for purchase and couldn't loosen it fast enough, and it held as the wind knocked the boat over. It all happened in a moment.
She was on her side and they were all in the water spitting and cursing.

Clay quickly found Lex and made sure he was fine, and then he found Matty.

“What the hell?” Matty came up sputtering. “Jesus Christ!” he bawled, slapping the water.

Clay took hold of him, pushing him against the floating boom for support. “We capsized. Happens occasionally.” Clay spat out a stream of water and grinned. Matty, who had taken his shirt off, looked for it now around the boat. Clay told him, “It's probably too early for nettles, but if there are any, they'll be out here, moving off the current. If you see any, just push 'em away with your hand. And just hold on to
Misty
's side. She'll float. They'll come get us soon and tow her in. If you want, you can help make sure we find all the boards. Swim them over here and keep hold of them. I'm gonna help pull the sails.”

They cursed the cabin cruiser as they worked on the sails and lines. Barker was muttering to himself while he worked. “Did anybody get the name of that filthy fucker?” he finally asked.

“Probably a charter,” Clay said. “No goddamn sense.”

“Bullshit to that. Sucker needs a punishin'.”

“I was trying to point you to it,” Matty said to Clay, “to warn you.”

Clay explained how he'd missed it. It just happened too fast. And no one could have heard much above Barker's shouting, the wind, the rush of the river and spray. Matty seemed to agree.

In the water, they all continued working until the
Miss Beatrice
arrived. Ronald Price, Barker's cousin, skippered her, and he offered his condolences for what happened.

“We were out yonder at the finish and didn't really see her till you were over,” he apologized. “By then she had throttled down and was out passing the lighthouse.”

“Fucker ran us down without a twitch,” Barker snarled. He continued yanking down the main.

“Was a good race, though,” Ronald said. “Would've been a close'un.”

Ronald's wife, Molly, big as a bait barrel, rose out of her deck chair. “I believe you had'em, Barker,” she called.

Barker looked at them and then grinned. “Goddamn, I thought we had 'em,” he said. “These boys made her fly. Yessir. Just made her fly.”

Clay helped Lex up into the
Miss Beatrice
.

“Do you think we had her?” Lex asked after he was in.

Barker answered. “We did indeed, son. And you were a fine bailer. Hell, we were skipping along on the edge of magical. It was a thrill, it was. But it's a damn fine edge, that is. Hard to balance on that edge too long. It's fine enough just to be there.”

They took a while longer to finish taking the sails off. Everyone pitched in and they handed them up. Clay, Barker, Byron, and Earl worked the masts loose, pulled them out, and tied them. Then they started bailing. While they worked, they watched
Flying Cloud
glide across the finish line well in front of the other two canoes that were still sailing. “She ran a good race and deserved to win,” Barker said. “'Gainst everyone but us.” After enough of the water was out, they hooked up the towline. Several more of the crew climbed into the
Miss Beatrice
. Matty declined and elected to stay with Clay. Molly took cold beers out of a cooler on the deck of the
Miss Beatrice
and passed them around. Barker grabbed two for each of them. Apparently taking Barker's lead, everyone's mood had improved. Barker, Clay, Matty, and Byron took their beers and then found seats in the river-swamped
Misty
. They began toasting one another. Clay smiled. He sipped his beer, leaned back, and relaxed as the tow slowly brought them in.

Laura-Dez was waiting for Byron and took him with her. Clay took Matty and Kate to the farmhouse to change and pack, since they planned to stay that night at Bertha's to be nearer to the dance. Then they drove back down to Pecks. Clay needed to take
the
Miss Sarah
out into the Choptank to empty and rebait his pots, and they both wanted to come. Clay told them they could cull for him and explained how to tell the sooks from the males, and the larger number ones from the number twos.

Churning downriver into the afternoon sun in the middle of the regatta, they could see the Penguins racing across from Bachelor Point, forty or more boats jockeying around the channel marker and turning toward Benoni Point light. They followed the sails out into the broad expanse of the Choptank. Turning southeast, Clay pointed out the landmark for his pot lay and readied the boat to pull. Beyond the shore lay the marsh, weaving with the tidal wash in the sunlight.

The pots were heavy with crabs. Clay gave Kate the rubber gloves and showed her how to avoid the pinchers. He was able to do most of the culling between pots, but she tried hard and helped some. Mostly, though, she studied him. Intent as he was, Clay couldn't fail to notice how she watched him at work on the water.

Matty, at first busy taking several rolls of film, eventually began to help with rebaiting the cylinders, though it was clear he didn't take to having his hands in fish brine. Clay had nearly filled all his baskets when he pulled the last pot. He whistled over his catch. He had eight bushels of ones, twelve bushels of twos, and seven bushels of sooks. The crabs were fat and heavy.

On the way back the sun was dropping behind them, and the river had turned the color of a copper cauldron. The sailors were finished and the big boats had all rafted inside the half-moon bay. The sound of horns calling came from every direction, and the ferries were busy. Clay let Matty and Kate off at the yacht club dock among the sailors and party-goers. From there they could walk down the street to Bertha's to shower and dress. He planned to meet them later. Before she got out, Kate made him promise her a dance, and from the dock she blew him a kiss.

Clay took the
Miss Sarah
slowly back across the Tred Avon to
Pecks. He was trying to get his thoughts in order, but they flew around in a confusion. Finally he just settled on watching the flaming river in the twilight.

When he got to the wharf, Jed had closed up. Clay had to unload the crabs himself into the walk-in cooler. He stood looking at the catch. He figured he'd caught over three hundred dollars' worth. He felt rich. He drove home, grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, and drank it while he showered and changed, then grabbed another for the road, suddenly wanting to hurry. Despite the long day and the sun, and the tiredness from being on the water in the heat, he was impatient. On the way to Oxford, the night air rushing through his car windows was like an intoxicant. Clay stepped on the accelerator.

At Bertha's, Kate came down the stairs wearing a short cotton dress that left her shoulders bare and brushed against her thighs when she moved. She leaned over to kiss Clay and he breathed the perfume in her hair. She took Clay's and Matty's arms, and they walked together along the Strand toward the yacht club. The moon shone over the harbor and gleamed off the many masts. As they neared the yacht club, they could hear the Dixieland band.

They looked around for Byron but didn't see him, so they found a table, and Clay brought over plates of food and a plastic pitcher of beer. Matty was retelling his sailing adventure and got Kate laughing at everything. Before he knew it, Clay was inside with them, standing at the bar and telling Kate that he would not dance with Matty and her in a threesome. She finally gave up and went off with Matty. Clay watched her moving in her summer dress. The dance hall was packed with partyers. There were young men in tuxedos and barefoot girls in cutoff jeans, and everyone was dancing side by side and together. Clay stood and watched. He saw Paula Firth and Mac Longley sitting at a table. She waved to him
and he gestured back but did not go over to speak. He was thinking of going back outside when Byron grabbed him from behind in a hug.

“How you be there, pardner? How'd we do?”

Clay turned around. Byron's face was flushed, and he carried a bottle of applejack in his hand. Laura-Dez came up behind Byron and began dancing in place. She wore a black miniskirt and black cowgirl boots with silver buckles. “You wouldn't believe the crabs we potted today,” Clay replied.

“Well, damn.”

Clay looked past Byron and saw Kate. She began to move her hips and crooked her finger at him to come dance. He turned back to Byron. “We caught a boatful. Crabs are running. Should have some cash coming our way.”

Matty brought Kate over and ordered a wine for her and a Jack and 7 for himself.

“How'd you like it, Matty?” Byron asked.

Matty drank half his glass down and then handed the wine to Kate. “It was like a dream. A watery dream, and we had speed and wings, and just before we flew we just lay down in the cool water.”

“I mean about the crabbin'.”

“Oh. Great operation. Slick as an alewife, I guess.” He winked.

The band began playing “Mack the Knife,” and Matty reached over and took Laura-Dez by the hand. “What you say there, beautiful?” She followed him onto the dance floor.

Kate poked Clay on the chest with her finger. “I culled his crabs today, but he won't dance a lick.” She took Byron's hand. “Hardly seems right, does it?” She pulled Byron toward the dance floor. He resisted, but she kept pulling him till he gave. “You should talk to that partner of yours, Byron,” she said as she led him off. “Try to get him squared away.”

Clay saw Barker Cull and Jed Sparks in the corner, bought three beers, and took them over. Barker put his arm around him and
bragged on the race for a while. Jed admitted it might have been close “had her skipper not tipped her over that baby ripple.” They watched the dancers and talked about the races set for Sunday. After a while Jed went to the bar and came back with another round of beers in mugs with a shot glass full of whiskey sunk to the bottom of each. “Boilermakers, boys.” He raised his glass. “To the hardworking people.”

“And it's gettin' harder ever year,” Barker grumbled. “First good season of crabs in a coon's age.”

“Crabs're fat early, this slough,” Jed agreed. “Maybe it's a turnaround cycle.”

“I'll lift to that,” Barker offered, again holding his glass high.

Clay walked by the back bar and around to the dance floor, where the band had been slowing things down. Matty was still dancing with Laura-Dez. He watched them and looked for Kate. Then he felt her. She had his hands and then she had him on the dance floor and was holding him close. “If dancing one dance with me in public is too much culture for you, Clay Wakeman, just take deep breaths, close your eyes, and it will be over soon.” He took her advice. And then they danced again to “Moon River.” When the band struck up “When the Saints Go Marching In,” he took her back to the bar.