Hannah and Harley

  Hannah and Harley

I arrived at the Bristol Harbor dock in the October dusk, as the last ferry for Prudence Island prepared to sail. Hectic Friday night traffic had been further hampered by the thick fog blanket that crept into every nook and cranny, slowing the invisible cars to a winding snake with multiple pairs of glowing red eyes.

The swirling damp gray obliterated all but a blurred outline of the boat, and I heard the creaking of the ferry gate as it began to close.

The ferry was running behind schedule, but still I feared I wouldn’t make it and flew down the dock dragging my overnight bag and yelling, “Wait, please wait, I’m here!”

The creaking stopped. A disembodied voice called, “Hannah, is that you?” Andrew, the deck hand, teased me every Friday about my last minute arrival, and recognizing my distraught voice, he stopped closing the gate.

“Yes,” I called back as I neared the end of the dock, ”I got delayed by the fog.” As I boarded, and could finally see him, Andrew grumbled and locked the gate behind me.

“I tried to convince the captain we should cancel this run, but he is determined to make it. It’s going to be a hell of a trip, hopefully all the other boats have the sense to stay home.”

I nodded and tucked myself into the cabin. Normally, commuting cars filled the last ferry on Friday, but tonight only few lined the deck, and only three of us sat in the cabin.

 The boat cautiously pulled away from the dock, sounding the horn intermittently, and I stood by the window, as if my intense searching of the gray soup would somehow help the captain navigate. Suddenly a shape emerged from the murk, a fishing boat loomed so closely I could have touched it, had I been on deck. I gasped as it vanished again, but in that brief moment I caught a glimpse of the name, the Edward James.

"My God, did you see that?” I said to my two fellow passengers, and I collapsed on the bench. They barely glanced up from their iPhones, shook their heads and returned to their lighted screens.

By some navigational miracle, we made it safely to our destination, and I walked to my island car, wondering if the Edward James had fared as well. I started the car and headed towards my cottage hoping the visibility would improve, but the steely curtain persisted.

Normally, any vestiges of stress from the previous week were dissolved by the time I reached this quiet retreat. However, tonight my hands gripped the steering wheel as I searched the impenetrable mist for the thread of dark, narrow, dirt road. I drove with a prickling sense of foreboding that shivered through my bones.

I kept telling myself, “It’s normal to be anxious when driving inside a cloud,” but this felt like more, a disquiet that permeated the air around me, making it difficult to breathe.

Finally I turned down the winding driveway that led to my bungalow, perched on the rocky banks at the North end of the island. I tried to remember why I thought it was a good idea to be invisible to all other houses and a mile from my closest neighbor. I felt rather than saw, the end of the drive, and stopped the car next to where I hoped the front porch still stood. After prying my fingers from the steering wheel, I retrieved my pocket flashlight, but its tiny beam quickly disappeared. I climbed the steps, buffeted by

the rising wind, and found the knob for my unlocked door. Reaching my hand around the corner, I flipped the light switch, but the darkness remained—no power.

I felt my way to the kitchen and fumbled with lighting the oil lamp I kept on the table for emergencies. Then I put away the groceries and began preparing a cold supper of cheese, crackers, and apple slices. The cottage trembled as the wind howled and circled like a prowling wolf, and in the distance the ringing of a ship’s bell floated over the water.

“That’s odd,” I thought, “no boats should be out now.” A chill slithered down my spine. I stepped out on the deck overlooking the bay and found the strengthening gale had shredded the fog to feathery wisps that clung to the rigging of a fishing boat pointed towards the cliffs. The wind whipped the bay to a frenzy of whitecaps and the boat drew closer; a sliver of moonlight crossed the bow and the name Edward James crested a wave.

If it didn’t veer away soon, it would be splintered on the rocks. Panicked, I grabbed my cell phone and called Harley, the local fire chief who lived near the ferry dock. When he answered, I yelled above the howl of the gusts.

“Harley, it’s Hannah, a fierce wind has blown out the power, and I can see a boat struggling in the heavy seas in front of my house. It’s headed towards the bluffs, and I’m afraid it’s going to be dashed on the rocks.”

“What planet are you on Hannah? That fog is socked in so tight I can’t see my car in the driveway, never mind a boat on the bay, and there are no reports of a power outage.”

“But the moon is shining right on it, the fog lifted, but the wind is rising and the bay is rough.”

“There is no wind Hannah. It is dead calm out there—I don’t even hear the bell buoy. When I walk outside my door, there is nothing but a wet hanging cloud. What makes you think there is a boat out there?”

“I can see it in the moonlight being tossed on the waves.”

“Hannah,” Harley said slowly and precisely, “there is no wind, there is no moon, and there are no waves to toss a ship that isn’t there.” The volume of his voice rose until he shouted the last few words.

“But I can see it, it’s the Edward James, and it’s foundering, we have to help!” My frantic words met with silence on the other end.

“Harley? Are you there?” I cried, afraid I had lost the connection. Still no answer, and then I heard his quiet response.

“I’m here Hannah, the Edward James was my great grandfather’s fishing boat, it went down in the ’38 Hurricane, with all hands on board.”