Billingsgate Shoal Read Online Free

pointed to the thick stream of water gushing from
the boat's bilge pipe. It came squirting out in thick, ropy geysers.
Had it been red it would have resembled a severed artery.
    "What's that, the cooler?" she asked.
    "No." I pointed to another stream of water,
this one a straight hard jet of clean spray. That was the outlet for
the sea water that had just run around her engines, cooling them. No,
this rust-colored water coming in torrents was bilge water. And there
was a lot of it. Almost before my eyes the boat seemed to rise higher
in the water.
    "They're pumping her out. Did you see how low
she rode as she came in? I'd say she was close to sinking. No wonder
he was in a hurry."
    "Who? The man in the little boat?"
    "Yep. Well they've made it in all right. I bet
the motion of the boat through the water was what intensified the
leak. Now that she's in still water they can keep her up until she's
repaired properly."
    Allan Hart was ambling up the dock, clad in his scuba
suit. A big strapping kid we'd known since he was six. It was Allan
Hart who finally gave Jack (then called Jackie) the courage to put
his head underwater and do the dead man's float. The two had been
inseparable ever since: the Mutt and Jeff of our summers on Cape Cod.
    "Hey Allan!" shouted Mary, waving her arm
up high.
    He was wearing a wetsuit top and carrying a big
stainless steel tank under his arm. Across his wide shoulders were
strung a yellow weight belt and a huge pair of swim fins. He grinned
at us and hurried along. Allan was a native Cape Codder who lived
with his mother, a widow, in Eastham. He was strong; those tanks,
regulators, and weight belts weigh considerable. I know because I've
tried to heft them. And yet Allan was moseying along the dock with
all his gear tucked away, under his arm and on his shoulder as if he
didn't even notice it. In his right hand he carried a long shiny
object. Spear gun. I saw the reddish-tan pieces of surgical latex
tubing bounce and flip around with each step he took. Those were the
elastic ropes that drove the barbed spear through fish.
    "How ya doing'?" he asked as he set his
gear on the gray boards above us; He looked down approvingly at the
catboat. I snapped two pictures of him.
    "See you're goin' out. Is Jack back yet? Tell
him to stop by—"
    "Why don't you stop by? He's due up here around
four or five. C'mon over to the cottage then and—"
    "Thanks, Mrs. Adams, but I've got a date for
dinner in Chatham."
    "Well stop by anyway on your way down for a
beer. Jack would be glad to see you, I'm sure."
    "Good. OK I'll do that. And if I get lucky today
I'll bring some fish for you."
    He sat on the pier, his legs dangling over the side.
He strapped on the tank and regulator and slipped the weight belt
around his waist. I saw the yellow-painted steel rectangular weights
spaced evenly around the nylon webbing of the belt. There were a lot
of them. There was a biggish knife—with a cork handle in a red
plastic sheath strapped to his right calf. Staring out at the green
trawler, he put on a rubber hood that was bright gold, and had USN on
it in big letters.
    "You join the navy, Allan?"
    "Naw. I just borrowed this from a friend. If you
can keep your head and chest warm you can stay down a long time. That
water out around the outer breakwater is deep and cold, but that's
where the big tautog hang out. Hey she looks mighty low."
    We all turned and looked back at the boat.
    "Why don't you swim out there and see what you
can see?" I asked. "Take a peek at her hull. Bet you see a
gash somewhere."
    He put on the big flippers. They made a
sound— squidge, squidge —as
he slipped them over his feet.
    "OK. It's right on my way over to the breakwater
anyway."
    We mentioned seeing the boat stranded out on
Billingsgate, which seemed to increase his curiosity still more. Then
I noticed he also carried a small flashlight, encased in black hard
rubber, which he tested, then fastened to his belt. The face mask was
resting up on top