Lifesaving Lessons Page 12

We were closing in on the two-week deadline for Ken’s resignation of guardianship. I got word from the county sheriff that two state police officers and a special federal agent were coming to the island the next day. They couldn’t ride the mail boat, so they would be brought out from Rockland, which is clear across Penobscot Bay, by the U.S. Coast Guard. I was asked to meet the Coast Guard boat offshore with my boat and lead them to our town dock. From there our first selectman would transport the officials to Ken’s house. Of course I agreed, more than ready for this long-awaited juncture. The county sheriff would accompany me aboard my vessel as would the first selectman. A time and rendezvous point was set. The handful of islanders who were aware of the pending arrest spent several nerve-racking hours surmising and worrying on the telephone. I didn’t sleep that night.

  I dropped Mariah off at the boat and was thrilled to get a thumbs-up from the mail-carrying cousin. Okay, I thought, one down, one to go. Soon after the mail boat pulled away and headed ashore, the county sheriff arrived in his own boat, ready to make a trip offshore with me. The first selectman was promptly at the dock just as I brought the Mattie Belle in from the mooring. The men stepped aboard and off we went.

  Fortunately, it was a brilliantly clear day. The breeze was fickle, flirting with the sun, and yet embracing as it delivered a chill it held from caressing the bay. It was the kind of day that lets you know winter is on its way, but when I turned the boat just right, the sun’s blaze on the ocean connived to suggest that autumn was in no particular hurry to yield to the next season. We passed the lighthouse at Robinson Point and I felt good that I was now doing something. I liked the feeling of the cold wheel in my hands. My confidence soared. The knot in my stomach melted away as I steered for a position off Kimball Head, where I could see the entrance to Fox Island Thoroughfare from where the Coast Guard boat would be coming. This is what I understood. This was my comfort zone. This was the day we had all been waiting for, and I was happy to be a spoke in the wheel of justice that seemed to finally be spinning.

  I knocked the engine out of gear. We drifted, rolling gently from crest to trough to crest of swells that displayed nothing but blue. The sheriff looked at his wristwatch, then at me. I raised my eyebrows and shoulders in unison. He said, “It’s time.” The agreed-upon time of rendezvous was ten o’clock. I scoured the horizon to our west, trying to pick a boat out of the shoreline. I saw nothing. “Probably just running a little late,” the sheriff said. I found it strange that the Coast Guard would be late to arrive at a point and time they themselves had set. Didn’t they have the best state-of-the-art electronic equipment for navigation? They have stuff that civilian mariners don’t yet have access to. And aren’t they heavily trained and highly skilled? Weird that they couldn’t figure out an ETA accurately, I thought. But realizing that I might be a bit uptight about what might transpire and perhaps unfairly impatient, I forced myself to sit on the gunwale rather than stand at attention at the helm.

  Sitting patiently didn’t last long. I grabbed a pair of binoculars and searched again. I saw nothing. “Maybe I should call them on the radio,” I suggested. Both men agreed that a call was in order because the CG was now officially forty minutes late. After two attempts, I received an answer from the very apologetic Coast Guard. They had experienced traffic coming out of Rockland. Just so you nonboating people know, that was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard. Traffic? In Rockland Harbor? That time of year? But you are the U.S. Coast Guard, I thought. Maybe they experienced heavy traffic on Route 1 on their way to the CG station, I hoped. The nice voice on the radio confirmed that they would be exiting Fox Island Thoroughfare in five minutes. I thanked the man, and felt a huge sense of relief. Now all I had to do was wait for them to come near, and lead them to the dock. Phew.

  Well, five minutes turned into fifteen. I finally spied the CG boat coming out of the notch on the horizon that I know as Fox Island. With the binoculars I could see the telltale red stripe against the white hull. “Here they come.” I smiled. And as I watched the boat turn to the south and increase speed, I said “And there they go.” The boat was approximately ninety degrees off course. “Where the hell are they going?”

  “Matinicus?” offered the sheriff, mentioning the only island or land mass the CG might find south of us before hitting Cape Cod. “Head them off.” And I tried. But they were too far away and moving much faster than the Mattie Belle could manage. I really didn’t want to be on the radio any more than necessary as I was still thinking that this was to be a somewhat covert operation. There was a long-standing stereotype among the members of the commercial fishing world that all Coasties were from Kansas, or some other landlocked home, but it didn’t seem that funny right now. We chased the boat for a while hoping someone aboard might happen to see us and mention to the captain or navigator that they were being pursued. But it was no use. They were putting quite a distance between us. I had no other choice than to radio them again.

  I asked the very nice and youthful voice to please come to port about ninety degrees. And lo and behold, we watched the boat, which was now no bigger than a dot, grow to what once again resembled a Coast Guard vessel. When it was clear that they had no idea which boat on the ocean I was aboard, even after I gave them my position in latitude and longitude, I asked the nice boy to stop where he was. “Just knock your vessel out of gear, and I will come to you. Please. Over.” Once I was close enough to ensure there was no mistaking the Mattie Belle for any other boat, I waved an arm at the CG boat and motioned them to follow me. They responded by waving in the other direction, beckoning me to come closer, which I did. I got right up alongside their vessel so that I could communicate without the radio.

  There were three uniformed men on the deck of the boat, all dressed in navy blue and sporting orange life vests. The door on the upper deck of the bridge opened and another uniformed man stepped out. They all looked like kids, which I sadly realized was more an indication of my age than theirs. The officer above informed me that he was unauthorized to take his vessel to the dock as the depth of water on the navigational chart was insufficient for the draft of the boat of which he was in command. I asked what she drew, and he replied that he needed ten feet of water in order to get permission to proceed. “It doesn’t look like you draw ten feet,” I commented. He agreed that the boat did not need that much water, but the rules governing what he could do did. “Well, there’s at least ten feet there now. You’ll be all set.” He apologized and explained that things weren’t that simple. He did not have permission from someone who was calling the shots from ashore, and could not, under any circumstances, proceed any farther. He then suggested that I secure my boat to his and transfer the three people he had transported to this point. This was dumbfounding. And not at all what I wanted. This part of the bargain was unnecessary. There was plenty of water at the dock. We had waited so long for this day. I deduced that I would also be transporting the officers along with Ken back to the Coast Guard boat. I was nervous about Ken. Did I really want to face him in this situation? No, I did not. But what other option did I have?

  I made a circle and lined up to secure my starboard side to the CG vessel’s port side. So far this mission qualified as keystone cop material. My confidence in the result was flagging. Although the weather was fair, the sea was far from calm. The swells rolled the Coast Guard boat nearly rail to rail because she was fairly round bottomed. The CG crew scrambled to secure large fenders to their port side where I could hopefully make a landing long enough for the police officers to jump ship. I stuck the landing and handed one of the crew members a short line to cleat off while the sheriff did the same at the stern.

  Three people emerged from within the CG vessel and stepped somewhat athletically from bouncing boat to bouncing boat. The first thing that struck me was the physical appearance of the three officers. Two very fit and handsome men, and one extremely fit and gorgeous woman thanked me for coming out to get them. They could have stepped right off a movie set—they so
looked the part of the good guys. The CG crew released my lines, and off we went. My three new passengers introduced themselves—all special agents, two with the state police and one with the FBI. So, I gathered, this was the A team. And as we steamed toward the dock, the conversation restored all of my confidence. I was impressed. Scared, but really impressed.

  What scared me most was the new knowledge that this team had neither a warrant for Ken’s arrest nor a search warrant. They had experience with similar situations but, it seemed, nothing else. Something about their presence—demeanor or professionalism—prohibited me from asking the logical question: “So what the hell are we doing today?” They obviously knew what they were doing, which was quite comforting. But I was absolutely sick with worry now that I would be transporting this special team back to the Coast Guard vessel without Ken. Then what? Forcing that dark thought back into the depths from where it came, I eased the Mattie Belle into the float at our town landing, relieved to have no witnesses. All passengers except the sheriff, who stayed with me, disembarked, asking that I remain at the float until they returned for their ride back offshore. I don’t know which was stronger, wanting to be the proverbial fly on the wall at Ken’s house or the repulsion of knowing what had happened over the course of years that had led to today and wanting to hide under a rock until it was over. I could do neither. So I had nothing to do but sit aboard the Mattie Belle with the sheriff and wait.

  “Isn’t that the mail boat coming?” the sheriff asked.

  Sure enough, the Mink was approaching the float with a deck loaded with lumber and other building supplies. All freight coming to Isle au Haut does so across the end of the town landing, where I was now tied. I would need to move to make room for the Mink to secure directly under the hydraulic winch so that the freight could be off-loaded. I heard a truck backing down the dock, coming to receive the supplies. Poor timing, I thought, as I started the engine, dropped lines, and idled out of the way. Judging from the size of their load, the Mink would be here awhile, I thought. “I guess we might as well hang on my mooring,” I said as I moved in that direction. This was just another wrinkle in the fiasco.

  Secured to the mooring, the sheriff and I sat on the engine box of the Mattie Belle, where we were sheltered from the cool breeze and fully exposed to the sun. We watched as bundles of cedar shingles and stacks of lumber were lifted from the deck of the Mink, swung dangling from the end of the boom, and lowered onto the back of the flatbed truck. Over and over, up and down—it was like clowns climbing out of the tiny circus car. How much freight could the boat possibly carry? My heart skipped a beat when I saw the selectman’s red Jeep Cherokee come tearing down the ramp and onto the wharf.

  The sheriff and I both jumped to our feet. We watched as the selectman climbed out of the driver’s side of the Jeep. The other doors remained closed. Although I peered with all my might, the glare on the Jeep’s windshield didn’t allow my nervous stare to penetrate. The selectman stepped aboard the Mink and disappeared into the cabin. The selectman called me from the Mink’s radio. When I answered, he said, “They asked him some pointed questions, to which he confessed. Then he faked a seizure. We are now waiting for him to be cleared medically before they can proceed.” I had no idea to what Ken had confessed, nor did I understand how he might get medical clearance or how the officials would proceed. In spite of all of my ignorance, I thanked the selectman for letting me know. I understood that I was to be on standby for something at some time. And that was it.

  I cast off the mooring and steamed to the dock where the selectman was just about to climb into his Jeep. I needed more information and wasn’t going to get it over the radio. He saw me coming and surely sensed my bewilderment. I threw the Mattie Belle into reverse just long and hard enough to come to a complete stop just astern of the mail boat. He came to the edge of the dock where I was close enough to converse at low volume. He knelt down to get as close as he could and said, “He volunteered enough information for a judge to issue a search warrant and a warrant for his arrest over the phone. I’m not sure how much longer it will be, but they are not leaving the island without him.”

  I was greatly relieved to hear of the impending arrest. But I was very unhappy with the thought of being part of whatever would happen from here. “Thanks. That’s good news. I’m not having him aboard my boat. The Coast Guard will have to come get him,” I said bluntly. I promptly picked up the radio and called the Coast Guard vessel that was still waiting offshore. I knew that they had heard about the seizure, and assumed they’d had phone contact to know what I had just learned of the arrest. “I don’t think it’s prudent or safe to do an at-sea transfer of this guy who is having seizures. If fact, I don’t think I can be held responsible for getting him to you safely. You’ll have to come to the dock and pick him up. There’s plenty of water here now, and the tide is rising.” I was asked to stand by, which I did while assuming the young officer was now in contact with his superiors. The answer came back asking that I come out to get one of the officers from the boat, show him the way to the dock, show him the depth of water, and then, if the officer agreed that it was safe to proceed to the dock, I could come back for them and they would follow close behind.

  I was so anxious and stressed out, I steamed at full throttle to pick up the officer, who jumped before I was secured to the vessel. I steamed the distance to the dock, talking the entire time about the channel, what to avoid, and which side of the day marker to be on coming and going. I pointed at my depth sounder continually, commenting on the deep water we had everywhere. I prayed for a mark of ten feet at the dock, and was relieved to see twelve. “See? There’s plenty of water here, and this is the shoalest point.” The kid was young and inexperienced. I could tell he trusted me but didn’t want to be responsible for making a bad decision. “And I’ll lead the way. There’s no way to get in any trouble,” I pleaded. The sheriff chimed in to support my argument. He added that the Coast Guard should not expect a civilian to transport what was now a suspect under arrest, especially when it was so unnecessary.

  We zipped back to the Coast Guard boat, allowed the young officer to hop off the Mattie Belle, and headed for the dock for what I hoped would be the final trip of the day. The Coast Guard followed close behind, breaking away when I turned for my mooring. I watched as they tied to the town landing in the berth that the mail boat had now vacated. As I shut electronics and engine down, I couldn’t help but have an overwhelming sense of doom. Nothing had gone right today. Was this an omen of some kind telling me that I was making a mistake? It was not a good feeling, and one that I tried desperately to persuade to subside. What if Simon and my parents had been right? The sense of impending doom at the hands of a decision I had made against the advice of the three most relied upon people in my life had the effect of making me feel very weak and small, quite the opposite of what I needed to feel. It wasn’t as if I could say “so far, so good” with regard to my relationship with Mariah. In fact, it was strained at best. I had never been more truthful than when I told Simon that I had lived very selfishly to this point in my life. And now I was making a major commitment to share when I had been unwilling to do so with anyone to date. I had made bad decisions before and lived with them. But my mistakes in the past hadn’t involved more than someone’s paycheck—usually mine. You can always make more money. But how would you go about fixing screwed-up hopes and dreams and futures? I wanted to believe that I would be more than just the best of bad options for Mariah. I had to be more than the least of all evils. I was confused. What I knew for certain was that it would have been easier, a lot easier, to spend the rest of my life alone. But I also knew that easier did not always mean better.

  If I was doing the right thing, why was I virtually hiding in the parking lot waiting for the red Jeep to reappear? Why was I feeling ashamed? All that I had done to this point had been so bold and brave. Why was I now cowardly and unable to face Ken?

  I have spent many hours wondering what caused those
feelings, and have never been able to justify or psychoanalyze to any satisfaction. But when the Jeep roared down the hill and onto the dock, I had to see and not be seen. I had to watch Ken helped out of the vehicle, unhandcuffed long enough to be helped into a survival suit and rehandcuffed and helped aboard the Coast Guard boat, where he disappeared into the cabin. I raced to my house, arriving in time to watch the Coast Guard boat go by and disappear behind Robinson Point. The kids from Kansas appeared to be off course by about ninety degrees. But Ken was gone, and since then not a day has passed that I haven’t been very thankful for that.

  CHAPTER 8

  What’s Another Cat?

  Out of sight, but not out of mind, Ken left behind more than a kid, as it turned out. I suppose it was my naïveté that held fast to the notion that all the badness and fear that had enveloped my small circle of friends and family who had endured the burden of the whole truth and kept it secret would be sucked down the drain with the dirty water as soon as the handcuffs snapped around Ken’s wrists. It was perhaps idealism that wheedled my heavy mind-set to the lighter prospects of everything working out for the best now that the bad seed had been disinterred. To the contrary; the weeks that followed closely behind the arrest opened a gaping wound that bled freely from the island’s heart and soul. The possibility of healing our community bore the same degree of remoteness that the chances of our having a practicing pedophile in our midst had done just a short, innocent while ago. The awareness that Ken had lived among us while living such a sleazy, filthy life left more than a scar.

  Not the least of what Ken left behind was Cowgirl, the sickly, skinny, stinking cat. Because I am not a lover of all of God’s little creatures, I resisted when asked to adopt Cowgirl. And that was before I had laid eyes on the ratty feline. To say that I had a weak moment would be quite an understatement. Weak? I was put under the barrage of the masses at my lowest point. I had been reduced to tears. I totally dissolved in front of the entire town of Isle au Haut. Oh, it wasn’t the cat that I was publically bawling my eyes out about. Those tears didn’t come until a little later. My public crying jag was a complete culmination of everything that Ken had left behind but the cat.