Saturday, December 28, 2019

The Spirit of '76

An excerpt from "The Spirit of '76, a short story appearing in "A Red Dress Night" coming Spring of 2020.


There were nine souls on board the Spirit of ’76, the morning she set out on her maiden voyage. To be more accurate it was our maiden voyage, not hers. She was a far cry from being a maiden having sailed the seas longer than most of us had been alive. She had seen more of the world than we will see in our lifetime. She had been abused by nature’s wrath and neglected by the slothfulness of man.  But for us, nine fishermen barely old enough to sprout facial hair, she was a beauty and the hope we hung our futures upon.

We learned of the Spirit’s tender state from the banker’s son, a lad named Oliver Freeman. We had gone to school with him, but he was three years our younger and being the son of a banker had little ambitions for the sea. Oliver followed the Magnificent Nine, a name given to our band of ambitious anglers by our tenth grade English teacher, Mr. Crossgod, like a little puppy nipping at the heels of his master. His pestering presence was nothing more than an inconvenient annoyance at times, but we never hesitated to tap an endless fountain of knowledge the good Lord had granted him. The school’s principal had recommended Oliver be promoted three grades because of his advanced academic comprehension, especially in the disciplines of mathematics. I, along with the others, often tapped his gift when stumbling through algebra or calculus. He never asked for anything in return other than occasionally to hang with the Nine.  

The nine I speak of by name are, Douglas, he the oldest by eighty-one days. Brian and Gregory were the boldest by miles. Then there was Greg, Douglas’s cousin, and Kurt who came to America in 1943 with his grandfather. Number six is Adolph, who changed his name to Wolf shortly after the war had ended, and of course me, James Goode. The last two are Louis and Robert. They had not been part of the original seven when we had first become inseparable. These two would join us on Saturday nights and special occasions. Mr. Crossgod had mistakenly, or with prophetic finesse, dubbed them as part of the Magnificent Nine unaware of their now and then participation. After being so knighted, their presence increased greatly. The seven had become nine. Louis and Robert were the last to join this unusual fraternity. They were also the first two to die aboard the Spirit of ’76.

Oliver was aware of my youthful yearning to purchase a fishing boat one day. It was a Saturday afternoon when after galloping into Riddell’s Pharmacy where Douglas and I sat slurping root-beer floats, Oliver breathlessly told me about the precipitous availability of a schooner named The Spirit of ’76. The vessel’s owner and captain, Theodore Pagano, had fallen upon hard times, his health and money both reaching a sad end. He was in arrears to the bank for the exact sum of $1347.76. Oliver’s father agreed to hold the schooner back from Monday’s auction until his son had a chance to present the opportunity to me, which he did while slurping his ice cream float.

“It may as well be a million dollars,” I told him. “I have a tenth of what would be needed.”

Douglas smiled and told me not to be a fool. “The Magnificent Nine will be sailing through the waters of Bristol Bay before the end of summer!” He told me to wait there for him and with a final slurp of his root-beer float, he bounded out the door.

I asked Oliver how the owner could let his property and livelihood go so easily. Oliver had overheard his father’s conversation with Pagano. He has no family to help him, Oliver explained. And his crew abandoned him after the last haul barely covered the cost of bait and fuel. The previous winter had been hard on the old skipper; hitting him twice with pneumonia.

“He told my father it was time to leave the sea and Alaska behind. He would return home to Oregon to die in the home of his late sister.” Oliver’s voice was filled with sadness.

Little time passed before the chimes above the front door to Riddell’s rang in the return of Douglas. He was followed by seven boys with toughened exteriors and grins from ear to ear.

“We are all in,” Douglas announced, “The Mag-9 will crew the vessel known as the Spirit of ’76, through the waves of Bristol Bay hauling in more salmon than any fisherman before them.”

The fountain counter at Riddell’s has eight barstools lined in front of the Formica counter; Oliver and I stood at the end as my friends mounted the stools chattering about the future. Greg, always inquisitive, asked the same question as I about why the owner would relinquish so much for relatively a small amount. I spared Oliver having to tell the story again, fearing he may start crying in doing so, “He’s too sick to fish the Bay.” I told them.

“His loss, our gain.” Wolf proffered before taking a huge bite of a hamburger oozing mustard and ketchup.

Kurt frowned at Wolf before offering a query, “What is the total amount we need?”

Oliver provided the answer as Kurt removed a small notebook from his pocket, “How much do you have Jimmy?” He asked me. He added that to his book. We all waited as he deciphered the numbers. The minutes ticked off the clock as he added and then re-added.

“We are short.” He announces.

“How much?”

“More than two-hundred dollars and that’s not considering the cost of getting her ready.”

Moans from those sitting at the counter turned the heads of two women waiting at the pharmacy window. Mr. Riddell, owner, and pharmacist cast a disapproving look our way.

Standing, Brian claps his hands loudly, “We can get that. It may take some time but all of us have jobs. We work. We save. We conquer!”

“The boat will be auctioned Monday,” I tell them, “we could never get that much before then.”

“There has to be a way,” Douglas told us, “What do you think Louis? You are always coming up with a scheme to make some money. Do you have any of your crazy ideas you’ve been saving for a rainy day?”

Luis had started a bakery in his mother’s kitchen when he was thirteen years old. He sold hot cinnamon rolls in the morning before school started for a nickel apiece; ten cents cheaper than Sal’s Diner sold them for and twice as good. One summer, he sold maps to gold mines to the mainlanders getting off the ships in Seward. The maps were accurate, but the gold had been farmed years before.

“I could make some rolls.” Louis offers.

With a mouth full of burger, “That would be a boatload of rolls,” Wolf replies.

We all became quiet, the mood stained by the tally. My dream was out of reach and I knew it. An opportunity like this one would never come again. I would go back to saving every penny in hopes of buying a vessel before I was too old to sail one. I considered asking my father for the money. But with the season delivering a poor catch the canaries had also suffered. He was a leader at Inlet Cannery and was able to hold onto his job while so many others were laid off. But money was short and asking him would be unfair.

The sun had fallen to the horizon when the Magnificent Nine decided it was time to head to our homes and our beds where we could dream about what almost was when Mr. Riddell walked over to the counter.

“You boys have a dilemma.” He offered.

Kurt glanced at me with a question on his face. “A problem,” I explained.

“How short are you?” the pharmacist asked.

Oliver, who had stayed with the Nine answered, “More than two-hundred dollars.”

Riddell stepped behind the counter, placing his hands of the surface he spoke to us—


“I like you lads, always have. You were good boys who are becoming good men. Let me tell you about dreams. Life sucks the breath out of them. When I was your age, younger, I dreamed of being the captain aboard a great ship, sailing around the world, visiting ports with exotic women and golden treasures. Don’t look at me like that, I haven’t always had this limp, that came years later courtesy of a pissed-off mama-bear. But life, or in this case my father, deflated my dream like a child’s balloon. He was a hard man whose rules were followed, or consequences dealt swiftly. He sent me away to Washington to attend school and become a pharmacist.” Looking around and gesturing fully, “This was his dream. Mine sunk to the bottom of the sea.” He pauses again tapping the countertop with arthritic fingers, “I will make you an offer. I will provide you a loan of five-hundred dollars which you will pay back after your first haul. Or second if necessary. I must also add interest to this loan. You are smart enough to understand nothing good in life comes without a cost.”

“At what percentage?” Greg asked.

“Not a percentage,” Riddell replied. Glancing at Oliver he continued, “Does the vessel carry a skiff?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And does this skiff have a name?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver replied.

My heart was beating excitedly. This man I had known my entire life was making an offer to accomplish my dreams. And I suspected I knew where he was going with his question.

“If it does have a name, it can be changed,” I told him.

“Bravo! Mr. Goode, if you would see that the skiff is christened “Riddell’s” I will consider the interest paid in full.”

“I can paint her name with the flare of royalty!” Robert offered.

Robert had been born with a keen eye and a steady hand. He was a wonderful artist and known around our community as such. Lifting his hands above his head and stretching his fingers wide, “The Spirit of ’76 and her trusty sidekick the Riddell will sail the ocean blue!”

That’s how I came to be 1/10th owner and captain, as voted upon by the others, of the fishing schooner Spirit of ’76. As I lay here tonight, I believe she has sailed her last journey. Only a miracle can hoist her sheets to catch a homeward wind safely returning a lone survivor to the frozen soil of the Last Frontier.

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