Hull Creek: A Novel of the Maine Coast

This novel is a work of fiction. All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. While some of the landscapes, communities, and businesses may be actual places, or based on actual places, the events portrayed in this novel and the actions of the characters in these places are entirely fictitious.

Copyright © 2011 by Jim Nichols

All rights reserved

Cover photograph © Dean Abramson

Designed by Lynda Chilton

ISBN 978-0-89272-915-9

Printed in the United States

Distributed to the trade by National Book Network

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Information available on request

ONE

When I traded in my old man’s boat I kept his brown box radio, put it on a shelf on the port wall of the wheelhouse. Now Polky’s spinning the dial, trying to find a station as we motor through the dark. But there’s only static, so he shuts it back off. He rips another beer out of the plastic six-pack rings, pops the top.

So how much did you pay for this battleship? he says.

Enough.

And you couldn’t have a half decent sound system put in?

Ollsen doesn’t do sound systems.

All right, Polky says. I guess I don’t check tomorrow’s weather.

Chance of fog, I say.

He laughs. Just what you need, huh? On top of poor fishing.

And a lousy price to boot. I shake my head at the way things have been going. Cool air slips through the Julie Marie’s wheelhouse. It’s full evening now, we’ve moved offshore and out of the fog and we can see the stars, clumped in rich clusters against a deep black sky.

She rides nice, Polky says. I’ll give you that.

She does.

You happy with the wood?

I never liked a glass boat, I say.

Lot easier to keep up.

I hate the way they bob around, though.

We climb over deep swells, unable to see the mainland lights because of the fog trapped against the shore by cool ocean air. It makes the gulf seem big around us; makes me nervous about trusting the compass. At least we’ll be able to see the Marine Patrol though, unless they get tricky. I feel my stomach shrink again at what we’re doing, and I turn to watch Polky walk aft, put a foot up on the transom, and give a little hop to settle his balance. It’s strange to have him on my boat. Usually I only see him in town, or at the lobster pound, sometimes at my house. I turn back, check my watch: nine o’clock. We slip along and I feel what a nice boat she is in the way she holds herself in the water.

Polky comes back, smelling like a cigarette.

Making good time, I tell him.

He looks at his watch, which he wears under the wrist, like me.

I tap out a beat on the wheel with my fingers. We ride along and Polky looks at me a few times, drinks his beer. Finally he smirks and says, So how do you like being a bad-ass?

Is that what I am? I say.

You’re a bad-ass in training.

Keep dreaming, I say.

You’ll come around, he says. It’s in your blood.

Bullshit.

Polky holds up his beer. Your grandfather ran this stuff.

Booze is different, I say.

It’s the same thing, Polky says. When I don’t answer he snorts and goes quiet. But I know he’ll bring it up again. He truly believes that smuggling is all right. You can’t go by the rules, he says, because nobody else does. Especially not the assholes who make up the rules. I guess it’s all in how you look at it. I can’t imagine my grandfather running drugs. But alcohol was an illegal drug back then, wasn’t it? I think this over and decide I’d better stop making Polky’s arguments for him. I should try doing something useful instead, like maybe checking our course. We’ve changed our heading to run across the mouth of the Bay of Fundy toward the southwest end of Nova Scotia, and because of the huge tidal flow in and out of the bay you have to watch out.

We’re back in the fog at eleven o’clock, and a half hour later we slow to motor in to the little town of Stewartville, making for Griffin’s dock around a point from the town landing. It’s pretty dark, but eventually I see a spotlight shining off the dull-red fuel pump at the end of the dock. There’s a stack of wire lobster traps on the other end and I see bait shacks running back into the yard. Unlike Pequot, this still looks like a working harbor. I bring the Julie Marie in against the float, and after we work the lines, Polky pops another beer and hands it over—his way of telling me to stay put.

Be right back, he says.

I sit on a crate while Polky scuffs up the dirt drive to the little house on the hill behind the wharf. Around the waterfront the fog hangs on everything. A foghorn sounds and the water rustles against the shore. Up the hill I can hear Polky knock, and after a minute or two the door opens and I hear the faint rumble of their voices. Then the door shuts and Polky walks back down.

He’s got it in the shed. He holds up a key.

We spend the next hour lugging duty-free rope to the boat, tossing it aboard. Then we take a minute to catch our breath. The deck is covered with the heavy strapped coils, not a real lucrative cargo, but you can make twenty bucks or so on each coil and since the geniuses in Washington decided we needed sinking line, everybody’s got to change out. I’m hoping to get a boat payment out of it. We go up the hill to the house and Griffin—maybe fifty, with gray stuck-up hair—opens the door and points into the living room. He follows us in with a pot of hot tea laced with whiskey.

"Irish whiskey, he says, with a bit of lilt in his voice. We’ll drink to your ill-gotten gains. We’ll drink to the poor, deluded tax man."

Polky shrugs. What he don’t know won’t hurt him.

We take the couch and he sits in a rocking chair, crossing his legs and raising his teacup. We sip the tea and talk things over, trying to be quiet about it so we won’t wake up his wife. He says that he personally thinks lobster fishing is going to hell in a hand basket. And trying to supplement your income is getting harder all the time, too. Just the past week the local Mountie told him they were keeping an eye on him. He called me a gangster! Griffin says with a laugh. Said I ought to get out of it while I still could. Told him I would if I had a choice in the matter.

You’re being watched? Polky says.

Griffin grins. No worries, Billy; strictly office hours with those birds.

Polky grunts and looks out the near window.

"Go to work in the service sector," I tell him. That’s what they want in Maine. Work in the service sector and keep the tourists happy.

Griffin says, There’s that, isn’t there?

"Fucking swanks!" Polky mutters.

Griffin says he’s a part-time carpenter, and he supposes he could try that full time. But he doesn’t really want to pound nails for a living. I tell how I went to school for a couple semesters, but had to come back and work the grounds when my father got hurt and couldn’t haul.

Ah yes, Griffin says. Use ’em or lose ’em.

I can’t believe it’s been ten years, though.

A fucking decade, Polky says.

Time flies, eh? Griffin says.

We sit there and finish off the pot of tea. Then Polky stands up. We troop back to the kitchen and put our cups in the sink. Griffin tells us not to worry about being quiet, his wife would probably sleep through Armageddon. All part of marriage to a gangster, he says with a grin. He follows us down the path to the dock and unlocks the gas pump. He fuels the boat and begins filling my extra cans. The pump clicks as its numbers change and the gas rushes into the containers until Griffin releases the trigger. He hangs the spigot up, takes out a pocket calculator, figures how much we owe him in Canadian and then converts it to American money.

Pay the man, Polky says.

I hand over most of my lobster money from that afternoon.

A pleasure, Griffin says. You bloody gangsters.

We board the Julie Marie and Griffin throws the lines in. You might watch out on the way back, he says. I understand they nabbed one of the Jonesport boys yesterday.

What was he doing?

Griffin just smiles.

We’ll watch out, Polky says.

Griffin heads back up the hill. Polky tells me to hold it a minute and climbs out onto the foredeck to take down the maroon and white buoy, the one you have to display so the Marine Patrol will know you’re hauling your own traps. He swings back into the wheelhouse and says, No sense advertising. Then he looks thoughtful. We could tack a blanket over the stern. You got a blanket below?

No, I say.

You got anything?

Just some rags, I say.

Christ, he says and shakes his head.

Considering this kind of stuff makes me feel funny all over again, but I don’t say anything. I push the boat away from the dock and we make out through the fog, circling the point. Running slow, the motor smooth, we head for open water. After a mile or so I open her up and take a course across the bay toward the mainland.

Want me to steer awhile? Polky says.

I’m okay. Go on down and take the bunk.

That’s all right. He sits on the floor with his back to the bulkhead, his arms crossed and his leather jacket pulled tight around him. He goes to sleep in about two minutes. He wouldn’t take the bunk because that would be soft, but he doesn’t mind sleeping while I steer.

I’m a little drunk, and lulled by the rhythm of the engine and the feel of the swells, my mind wanders back along the ten years since I came home from school. Three hundred traps at first, all the old man would fish because back then they called you a hog if you set more. But that gradually changed, and you had to set more to keep up. More traps and less money. In trouble with the bank, too. Still a bloody fisherman in spite of everything, though I sometimes wish I could have finished school and gotten a real job. But that was just never an option.

My thoughts drift farther back and I’m a boy, knitting trap heads, painting buoys, happy to be old enough to help. I’m stern-manning, running in with the old man’s big hand on my shoulder. I’m taking my own hand-me-down dory out to the few dozen traps I’m allowed to haul on my own, proud to have the gulls flocking along behind just like they did with the grownups. I see it all, right up to the accident that killed my mother and left my father too beat up to work and too sad to care. Then I’m brought back by Polky’s chain-saw snoring, and I snap to and the first thing I do is check the compass. But we’re on course, I’ve steered automatically. I rub my eyes, clear my throat, and lean out into the cool air to spit over the side past the snatch block.

Polky’s snore breaks off, and he sits up.

Sleeping Beauty, I say.

He looks around, then pats himself down to see if he’s all there. Making sure I didn’t steal his wallet, maybe. He grunts and gets to his feet, rubbing his chin and mouth. He turns his wrist to check the time.

We’re getting there, I say. I bring the bow around, heading on a tangent to home.

He yawns like a moose. What’d you do, steer all night?

It wasn’t too bad.

Should have woke me, Troy.

You looked too cute snoozing.

Polky snorts. So you decide where you’re going to dump it?

Right in Owls Head, I guess.

He nods and walks aft, picking his way through the rope. It’s gloomy ahead. Drops are collecting on the windshield, running upwards in little streams.

Here comes the fog, I say.

None too soon, either, Polky says darkly.

I twist around and see the running lights of a small boat, maybe three miles off, coming our way fast.

Polky walks back into the wheelhouse.

Who is it? I say.

Who do you think?

I don’t answer. I know who it must be.

Well? Polky says.

Choices fly through my mind, but I can’t seem to slow them down long enough to take a good look. Polky waits just so long, then reaches past me and shoves the throttle. The Julie Marie leaps ahead and I stumble before grabbing the wheel. I don’t bother to argue, just tweak our heading. We’re swallowed up pretty quickly. I change course again and run along blind. Then, when we’re well into it, I throttle back, feel the Julie Marie settle lower in the water.

I hope you know what we’re doing, I say.

Can you hear them?

No.

Cut the engine.

I cut the engine and we drift, rising and falling. Polky grabs my arm and points. I see the spotlight stabbing into the fog and I’m surprised they’re this close. Then their engine goes idle, and somebody says in a high voice through a bullhorn: Attention, lobster boat in the area! Please set your VHF radio to channel sixteen. Listen for instructions! This is the Marine Patrol, and we are conducting a routine search of all vessels!

Sure, Polky mutters. We’ll get right on that.

Attention! comes the voice again. Your cooperation is mandatory! Please set your VHF radio to channel sixteen and listen for instructions! We intend to board and search your vessel! Refusal to follow instructions may result in legal action including the possible loss of your vessel!

Well? I say.

They’d have to fight the bank for her anyway.

Good point. I wait until they’re running again, then push the starter button, throw the Julie Marie into gear and give her full throttle. It’s exciting, what we’re doing. I feel it in my gut. We charge away from the Marine Patrol and run all out into the fog until the spotlight disappears behind us. I watch the compass, check the bottom finder, but it’s deep out here.

Maybe we should put it overboard, I say to Polky.

Last resort, Polky says. You need the money too bad.

Their boat’s faster.

You’ve got the jump on them, Polky says. And you ain’t going anywhere in a straight line.

What if they have me on radar?

You can’t see a little wood boat on radar unless you’re awful good.

What if they’re awful good?

Not that crowd. Polky grins.

After ten minutes I cut the engine again. We drift, rocking. I stare around at the dense fog, half expecting the Marine Patrol boat to come busting into sight. Then I hear their engine. They’re not so close any more. When a foghorn sounds I restart and set off on a different course. The voice over the bullhorn follows us, but I can’t hear what it’s saying any more. It gets fainter every time I shut the boat down, and finally I can’t hear them at all.

Polky says, Now he’ll head for shore.

You think he knows us?

He bushwacked us, didn’t he?

Maybe.

I’d forget Owls Head, anyway.

Where, then?

How about the Number Two Point? Polky’s eyes are bright. The old blood is flowing. I know what he feels like now, and that scares me a little. It’s too much like when we played basketball, competitive like that. I shove the Julie Marie into gear and as I feed her the gas my heart speeds up, too. I shake my head, staring into the fog, wondering how I came to be out here in the middle of the night, smuggling rope, dodging the clam cops.

TWO

I guess I can figure the day it all changed. I remember coming in, upset after another poor haul, yanking the skiff toward the old iron bridge that takes Seaview Street out of town and bends it down the south Pequot peninsula. It was late in the afternoon, not a cloud in the sky, and I had my eyes on my lobster boat, moored on the east side in front of Danny Brinker’s marina. Then I stopped to look over my shoulder. The sun was low and bright, flashing down the creek, turning the water under the bridge the color of a new penny. I stirred with one oar to change my heading, then bent back to it. When I reached the bridge the current drove me sideways, but I dug harder and slowly made headway.

Understand, I didn’t have to work that hard.

I could have climbed out and walked the skiff up the narrows. There were foot rocks all along the bank. But I was just too pissed off. I had that helpless feeling that things were happening I couldn’t control, but one thing I could do was lean on those bloody oars.

It was cool under the bridge, only May and the air still a bit raw, but coming out the other side the sun warmed my neck as I inched along to smoother water. In two more deep strokes I was clear, and I slowed to catch my breath and looked around at the new growth on the high banks: the spring greens, the clumps of pink and purple phlox. It was pretty, peaceful, and I lost a little of my crankiness.

But I was still worried. Who wouldn’t be?

I started in pulling again, past black rock tops and through a wooded bend that brought the upper creek into view. I swung around on the thwart, careful not to tip—it was a small skiff and I’m a pretty big guy—and switched hands on the oars so I could face forward to check out the birds. The whole upper creek was alive because of the alewive run. There were gulls on the rocks, a fish hawk high up in a tree, a big mess of shags in the water with just their long black necks showing.

The shags backed away as I drew close and then sort of levitated to sprint along the surface, beating their wings and pattering their webbed feet on the water, raising a racket that in the confines of the creek sounded exactly like a roomful of applause.

It was a noise I’d heard every spring of my life.

I watched them go and thought of the old man. When the birds took off like this, he would bow his head like they were clapping for him and say, Thank you, thank you very much, his Elvis imitation so lame you couldn’t help laughing.

I smiled despite myself, watching the shags strain up into the air. They’re piss-poor flyers. I think it’s the set of their wings that makes them seem to work so hard. You look at the gulls and their wings are forward compared to the shags, and you have to admit they’re much better flyers, no matter what else you might think of them, which isn’t much in my case.

The shags lifted over the pine trees and birches, the gulls circled back toward the harbor and I caught a quick sight of the fish hawk pounding away north, looking a lot like a giant gull.

But he was no dump bird.