Billingsgate Shoal Read Online Free Page A

of his head as he inserted the mouthpiece, then
spat it out.
    "Guess I'm ready."
    The Ella Hatton's little diesel was grinding away nicely under the cockpit hatch. Mary
had removed the sail cover from the long boom and stowed it beneath
the seat. The lunch basket was tucked into the corner of the galley
counter, right near the sink. We were ready too.
    "Wonder why she's out in the middle of the
harbor anyway?" mused Allan. "As low as she's riding you'd
think she'd wanta come right up to the big pier."
    "Hey how's your mom been, Allan?" Mary
asked.
    "She's been pretty good. She still hasn't got a
boyfriend or anything yet, but you know, something'll turn up."
    "Well we'll have to ask her over some evening,"
I said. Mary grabbed the heavy lines that Allan Flipped down to her;
I put the engine into gear and we purred slowly out of the slip.
    "See you at around five, Allan. Get us a fish!"
yelled Mary.
    He waved back, replaced the mouthpiece, drew down the
mask, and pushed himself forward off the dock with his arms, turning
around in midair, and fell backward into the sea. He entered the
harbor water softly, quietly, for such a big guy. He surfaced again,
doing a slow lazy flip-flop with his fins. As we began to thread the Hatton through the
maze of moored boats toward the harbor mouth we saw a last flutter of
brightness just under the water's surface, a quick glimmer of shiny
tank and yellow diving hood. Then there was a little flip of motion,
and he was gone, heading out to the green boat, which was riding much
higher in the water now.
    Still, the boat's half-submerged look intrigued me.
It wasn't a sight you saw every day. I clacked away at it with my
camera. The motor drive advanced the film quickly with a loud whirr in between clacks of the mirror. A man appeared on her foredeck,
looking anxiously at the tiny harbormaster's shack. He had a faint
beard and wore a canvas jacket. I snapped more pictures. The man
didn't notice me; he was too busy gesticulating to the two figures
talking near the shack.
    One was Bill Larson, the harbormaster. The other was
the fellow who'd just run ashore in the little dinghy. As we neared
the harbor mouth we passed the boat's quarter at about thirty yards'
distance. I could read her name and port on her transom: Penelope ,
Boston. I was snapping a final shot when the man turned and looked in
our direction. When he saw me I saw a hint of a snarl start to form
on his lips. But as if he thought better of it, he turned and
disappeared into the wheelhouse. No doubt this had not been one of
his best mornings. Still I felt the prick of curiosity, and spun off
my 50-millimeter lens in exchange for a 135 and snapped a few more
photos of Penelope ,
whoever she was, before we got out around the breakwater.
    After three hours on Cape Cod Bay we headed back.
Mary was at the helm, holding the teak wheel that sits at the end of
the big round cockpit. Ella Hatton was close-hauled and heeled over slightly, churning her way up the
outer channel into the harbor. Two sportfishermen roared by us. The
men stood over the transoms laughing and drinking beer. No doubt they
had been out since before dawn hunting bluefish and striped bass. I
stared enviously at the big boats, with their flying bridges and long
outrigger poles. The tall towers swayed far and wide as the boats
rolled in the swells, their big engines growling and sputtering.
    A big boat was rolling out of Wellfleet toward us.
She tipped and plunged in the wake of the two sportfishermen. It was
our friend the Penelope ;
she was hustling too. We passed each other off Jeremy Point. The big
green dragger chuffed by us with nobody visible except a dim shape in
the wheelhouse. Evidently the repair was satisfactory; she was riding
high and quick. Seconds later her skipper opened her engines up; the
dark smoke shot up out of the stack like Old Faithful and the
engine's whine increased to a thunderous roar. She shook a
tailfeather south around Billingsgate Shoal (now