Hooked

Chapter One

Aboard the Salisi, May 22

Anita curled herself out of our berth, wrapped herself in a blanket, slid open the hatch, and stuck her head out. She has good legs. I enjoyed watching her calves, sprung tight by standing on the short companionway ladder. We were rich enough in what mattered, but that would change.

She took a long breath through her nose, swiveled in a circle, tilting backward to look at the sky and the mast-top wind vane. Living ashore, you might put a hand on the window to see how cold it was. You might decide to add a sweater, or leave the sweater behind... but ashore, you’d go out the door no matter the weather, sometimes just ignoring it, and go to work. We’d been aboard the Salisi, our 38 foot yawl, for the last two months. Part of our work was weather, and wind. And we never ignored the sky, or the wind, or the weather.

Anita has a great weather nose. That was one of her jobs, predicting the weather, if there was anything we did you could call a job while living off the hook on a sailboat. We’d been bobbing for three days in the outflow of the York River where it mixed with the Chesapeake Bay.

The Bay is shaped like a dried hot pepper, the narrow tip pointing north. It’s over 200 miles long, running from northern Maryland south through Virginia to the Atlantic Ocean. There is almost 12,000 miles of shoreline, and about 4500 square miles of water. So there is lots of room to wander about, even though the water’s generally shallow… averaging less than thirty feet. Summers are hot and humid, and the winters rainy. The Bay is really a ria, Spanish for a drowned river valley. Sea waters rose and backed up the Susquehanna, which broadened to a wide bay. The waters began to change from fresh to brackish to salt nearer the Atlantic. Although most of us were taught that John Smith was the first European to explore the bay, it wasn’t. Lucas Vásquez de Ayllón was first. He founded a Spanish mission called San Miguel de Guadalupe near Jamestown... but the Spanish get little credit for being first.

We’d been on the western side of the Bay, about a third of the way up, near the shoulder of the pepper, anchored in brackish waters waiting for the weather to break. It was spring, and had been clouded and squally… not pleasant for sailing, unless you had to be somewhere in a hurry. We were in no hurry, just comfortably waiting. The Salisi was large enough for two friends to live aboard, even better for really close friends, and wonderful for lovers.

Anita and I had started as friends over ten years ago; I’d volunteered to wrangle floating docks together for a fund-raising boat show, and Anita headed the planning department for the outfit the show was raising money for. We first met on a pitching dock, nearly swamped by the wake of a cruiser, setting up for the event in Norfolk harbor in a chilly spring mist. She was wet, I’d gotten wetter; after we’d lashed and bolted the last dock to its mate, we ducked out to Ricky’s and dried out. She threw her yellow slicker back over her shoulders, settled into the chair like a nest, smiled at me, and said, It’ll be sunny in another half-hour. I’d have agreed if she’d said it would rain sterling silver; I was smitten. She was tall and lean but shaped, with a jolty power, well-curved. But back then there’d been a wicked-large diamond and a wide gold band on her finger that she’d tapped on the table, looking at the menu.

It’s real good of you to help out, she’d said to me. I was startled to find myself wishing I’d done something more heroic than cruising over in the yard’s workboat and herding temporary docks into place. I thought then, and I still think now, that her face was handsome, which is to say it would be beautiful at any age, with a strong jaw, and tender, wide eyes. And damned if the sun hadn’t put a spring blaze across Norfolk harbor within the half-hour. She’d laughed out loud and slugged her beer back, jumped up and said, Gotta go! All for a good cause! You can volunteer any time you want!

Five years later she and I were both divorced. She’d started her own business. I was still running the salvage yard with Samuel. We dated, timorous and wary, for another four years, both coming off long-time marriages with sore feet and hearts. In the ninth year I invited her on a short cruise on the Salisi. It was, I’d thought, the best idea I’d ever had. I still thought so, anchored at the mouth of the York, on our third cruise, married now for fourteen months.

Anita popped back into the cabin, danced over to the berth. She settled down on top of me, spreading the blanket like wings. Her hair was brown and streaked, short and curled. Her shoulders were cold from the morning air, but the rest of her was warm and felt good.

There’s an east spring wind out of the York River, she said, warming her nose on my neck, Sky is clear, tides turned. Josh, it’s going to be a wonderful day.

Tangier? I asked her. I loved sleeping with her, and didn’t want to move. Everything felt good.

Yup, she answered. You wangle the anchors, and I’ll get breakfast.

We were headed to Tangier Island, across and up the Bay. Anita had heard over the VHF radio that the crabs were early and very good.

Chapter Two

First Leg

We set the mainsail starboard, to the right side of the boat, and the mizzen, a smaller sail billowing out from a shorter stern mast, out to port, for balance going downwind. We looked like a small gravy boat suspended from two huge neckerchiefs. There was a lazy breeze pushing us into the low rising sun. We left Gloucester Point and Yorktown behind, headed to an imaginary mark sixteen sea miles away.

I try to keep navigation simple: we’d go east, make a turn and then bear north up the Bay to Tangier, about 60 miles altogether, not counting the jigs and jags that sailing requires. So we’d noodle downwind for two hours, and then take a broad reach with the wind off the mainland on our port side. We’d have an easy sail for a couple of days. That was the plan, anyway.

Anita came up with a tray, her feet bare, wearing white shorts and a thick sweatshirt that said ‘Save the Bay.’ She’d made veggie omelets. We were wallowing a little, with not much sensible breeze, and there wasn’t much work to do. Salisi is an older boat, made from teak and oak and mahogany, and the rigging was simple. The mizzen helped keep course, since the mast was mounted aft of the rudderpost and acted like a rudder.

Damn, Josh, ain’t this the thing? Anita said.

How do you mean? I said.

I mean, the wind is pushing us along, and we’re just… well, sitting here grinning. No smoke, no noise. And free, like a kite.

Yup, I’ve always liked that. You want to go, you pull up the hook. You want to stop, you put the hook down. And then, all of the sudden, there you are. You’re home… but you’ve always been home. Can’t get that on land. Wherever we go, we’re there.

But it’s better to do it together, she said.

The second cruise we’d taken as a honeymoon in our ninth year, coming off the Eastern Shore directly after the ceremony and sailing the Bay north to see her family in Washington, and then a long visit with her brother in Annapolis. I learned that they all loved her, and had deep worries about me that they submerged in pleasantries. A salvage man, after all, sounded like a junk man of the sea. I didn’t blame them. She had a big family, and I practically had none left…a few cousins I never saw. Her mom and dad were still alive and well, health nuts since the fifties; both of mine were dead, killed by bad diets, smoking and genetic bad luck. I found myself wishing they could be here to meet Anita. On our second journey, she and I had crewed together well, but hadn’t settled to one another. This third trip seemed different, comfortable, with room for fierceness, and room for foolishness.

The sails are like kites, she said, stretching her arms out port and starboard, puffing at the billowed Dacron.

Yup, I answered, feeling very salty and comfortable. Sometimes a kite, sometimes a wing. We were making four knots, pretty good for an older sailboat.

How long to Tangier? Anita asked, not that it really mattered how long it took. We intended to be out for at least three months.

We’ll average three or four knots, so maybe twenty hours sailing. Two, three days if the wind holds.

Tell me again. Knots are miles an hour? Anita asked.

Sea miles. Yup. Three to four sea miles is like four to five miles on land. The breeze was warming up and it was very quiet. We’d left behind the noisy buzzing of the few early-morning wave runners, like mosquitoes on the water. All we heard was blissful silence, punctuated by the clop of following waves against the stern and the stretching of the wire rigging as it heated up in the sun.

There was a wide wooden bench like a horseshoe around the cockpit. We had eight soft cushions so we could make up two easy chairs, or one stern seat and a bed, or a wide nook low on the stern boards. That’s how we set them up for the slow sail north that morning. We were both stretched out, facing forward, keeping an easy hand on the wheel, holding one another.

So what’s a sea mile?

One minute on the compass. One-sixteenth of a degree.

Which made more sense than a land mile, I thought, which referenced the mille passus or a thousand steps by Roman soldiers. So we had about 60 minutes of arc to travel, maybe an easy two-day sail. Less if we sailed through the night; if the sky remained clear, we’d have moonlight. Very romantic.

Josh, she said. Her voice sounded drowsy. Is the bottom scanner on? she asked.

I had my head back, watching the sails, and a flight of fifteen pelicans heading south, directly overhead. They could have been kites, too, flying with wings stiff, working the wind.

Yup, I said. Still testing it out. MIBS wants to know… something about calibration. MIBS was the Marine Institute of Bay Science. I was testing out a portable bottom scanner for them. It was cheap, didn’t require a through-hull hole for mounting, and supposedly it spotted metal objects on the bottom, and below the bottom, better than anything before. Best of all, it worked on 12 volt solar. Fine by me.

Well, Anita said, pulling her legs under and pointing at the binnacle, it’s blinking at us.

Chapter Three

Off Gloucester

I’d enlarged the binnacle, the compass housing, to fit the controls for all the gear we carried. The scanner from MIBS reported to an LCD screen with an alarm light mounted on top. It was blinking when I looked at it, and the rate increased as we sailed.

Quick, drop the mizzen, I said, freeing the line attached to the corner of the mainsail. It relaxed, loosing power. I unclamped the halyard, the line that went up the mast to the top of the sail, and let the Dacron fabric cradle down just above the boom. It was like letting off the gas. Anita let the mizzen down behind me, and the Salisi slowed, yawing to starboard with the wind. Anita neatened up the main sail. We were becoming a good crew, each lashing a sail close to its boom, getting them out of the way quickly, tidied so a breeze would not send them billowing.

Very strong signal, I said, looking at the image on the screen. Whatever it is just went by, on the port side. We’ll have to engine. Let’s get Huffy running, I said to Anita, who smiled a little and hit the blower. Huffy was an evacuation pump that purged gases from the hull. An old gasoline four cylinder inboard still powered Salisi. A new diesel was in our plans; that would not need a blower, and would be lots safer. If you touch a match to diesel, it goes out. If you touch it to gasoline, or gas fumes, you find a new boat and captain. The pump rid our bilges of gas vapor so we could safely start the engine. I don’t think Joshua Slocum, for whom I was named, would have called his pump Huffy. Joshua had sailed around the world from Boston and back all by himself, in a yawl with sails like ours. But he had no motor at all.

Okay to start? she asked. I nodded, and Anita punched the red button that wound up the small Atomic 4 inboard motor, only eighteen horsepower when it was brand new. Now it was worn, and labored to move the Salisi.

We swung about, bow to the breeze, and eased back west. The sounder showed about 23 feet to the bottom. We dropped the bow anchor and drifted back over our discovery.

Looks like a cross, Anita said, looking at the scanner screen. Shaped like a capital I.

That’s a nice scanner. MIBS will like this; we’ll like it too. I think it’s an anchor. If we’re less than 25 feet above, it’s a good size anchor. It’ll be very easy to sell.

You want to bring it up? she asked. I looked at our davit hoist, an arm that swung off the stern. It ran 1/8 inch stainless cable off a hand-cranked winch, and could only lift 600 pounds.

We could lift it, maybe. But it’s not just the weight. It might have a pretty good grip on the bottom.

Let’s just mark it, she said, and call Samuel.

Samuel ran the onshore part of our salvage operation. It would take him a couple of hours to get here in the Ferret, our work boat. It may be worth it, maybe not.

I’ll go down, look around. Mark it if it’s too much for us. We’ll see.

This is exciting, she said, looking down into the green water. It was the second time that day I could admire her. The morning had warmed, and she’d shed her heavy sweatshirt, leaving a low-necked red knit that stretched nicely.

It’s like treasure, isn’t it? Someone lost it, who knows how long ago… and now we’ve found it. It’s been lying on the bottom, hundreds passing overhead, maybe left by dangerous men deep in criminal pursuits… she said.

Or a barge broke loose and snapped the bottom chain, I said to her, teasing.

I had a single bottle dive rig on Salisi. She watched me gear up.

Romance, she said, requires imagination.

I have plenty. For instance, I like those shorts and that… whatever it’s called, on top. Plenty romance here, sister.

I let myself off the stern, felt the shock of cool water, balanced everything out, and went down. Don’t dive alone, smart practice says. Anita hadn’t completed her open water certification yet, so she could not team up. But it was shallow, with a slow tidal current up the Bay.

I bent at the waist, flipping my legs out of the water. Their weight drove me downward in one push right to the bottom. Normally, you have to do what Samuel calls pitch and bitch to find anything under the water… but the scanner was as accurate as a GPS, and I swooped down right on the money. It was a big Bruce, a one-piece steel anchor shaped like a plow with two wings. It was four feet long and more than two feet wide. It weighed maybe eighty pounds and had a 20-foot length of heavy bottom chain still shackled to it. I unscrewed the shackle, dropped the chain, and waved away most of the sand from the flukes. There was a long box wired to the anchor shank.

I floated up and returned with the lift cable. I clipped it to an eye on the horn, meant for a trip line to pull the anchor out of the bottom, and went back up, curving backward, looking up with my arms out, slowly rising. Divers know the secret of water’s roof: that from below, the surface looks like quicksilver, like waving mercury, and your bubbles rise like rushing silver tears.

The winch strained to break the Bruce free; Salisi’s stern dipped down. I wondered about the lift, whether the weight was too much and I’d have to go back down and tie on a buoy, and then trouble Samuel to arrange a later recovery. But the anchor slid from the bottom and came out of the sea like manta ray. I’d seen two or three Bruces before. They’d been galvanized, heavy and dull. Meant for work in the North Atlantic, holding oil rigs. Sail boaters on the Bay use them too, for powerful holding; they were lighter, yet still galvanized, stolid. But this one flashed brightly, a giant deep-sea lure in polished stainless.

Whoa, will you look at that! Anita said. It looks beautiful, Josh. And dangerous.

Well, we drop that thing on a toe, that’d be risky…

It’s almost alien, Josh, I love bringing stuff up like this. Where’s it from? I mean, if you lost something like that, you’d go find it, right?

You’d think…

You never know, do you? She gave me a hug. Anita hugs without leaning forward. Her hugs went from knee to belly to breast. There’s a lot to like about her.

We struggled a little, getting the anchor settled on the swim platform off the stern. There wasn’t room for it aboard. Even large sailboats have smallish cockpits, and I didn’t want it in the way. Anita was right about it looking dangerous. It looked like a huge mace, the flukes sharp, even edged, and flashing painfully in the sun.

What is that? Anita asked, pointing to the anchor’s heavy shank.

Some kind of box, clamped on tight.

Have you ever seen that before?

Nope, I said, tugging on the box. It held fast, and looked like military issue, perhaps four inches high by five inches wide, maybe two feet long.

Why would someone put it there?

Let’s look. Could mean adventure, romance, and all… I said, grinning.

Chapter Four

The Box

Whoever had lashed the long grey box had wanted it to stay put. It was held to the anchor with four loops of stainless cable, pulled up taut and swaged with stainless collars. We stow a cruise box of tools for smaller repairs, oiled against salt water, but the rigging cutters couldn’t get a grip under the tight cable. I had to hacksaw each one, squatting on the platform, wetted by the slow bob of the boat, in and out of the water.

The box was indeed military issue, heavy, with four toggling clamps along each long side and one at each end. They’d been wired closed with stainless strands. Anita hoisted it up, sitting with the box in her lap.

Maybe it’s gold, she said, smiling. It’s heavy enough. She clipped off the binding wires, used a screwdriver to lever open the clamps, working methodically, stroking the matte gray box, running her fingers around the stamped square patterns.

Hey, Josh, is this legal? This all looks new; the anchor’s all polished, this box is new, there are no weed or barnacles. Isn’t there some law of the sea about new stuff? Doesn’t salvage have to be, you know, older? she asked.

Nope, salvage doesn’t have to be old, just lost, mainly.

Well, do you think this was lost? I mean, honey, this is a lot to lose and not notice.

There’s no ship attached. That’s a good sign of being lost.

No, I mean, what if it’s there on purpose… what if that anchor was not truly lost? What if it was dropped there, but meant to be found? Later on. Maybe not by us? she asked.

I thought of the water’s depth, the shine on the Bruce, the ease of spotting it to begin with. It was so big, any bottom scanner would have worked as well as BIM’s new toy. Be a silly way to hide it, strapped to a polished anchor in 23 feet of easy water.

I’m not feeling comfortable, though. This is not usual, am I right? Josh? Maybe we should be careful…

Anita, I’ve found the damndest stuff in the shallowest water. Samuel and I once hauled up a twelve-foot dory, from about fifteen feet of water. And you know what? Somebody had shoved a field-dressed black bear, gutted out, been shot three times in the chest, down under the thwarts of that little boat. Now that was not usual, I said. But neither is this… usual… but it is salvage. And I am a salvor. I put the box on the seat, squatted down, and tapped the top. It didn’t drum. Whatever was inside, the box had very thick walls.

Finders keepers, I said, and yanked open the lid. A thick rubber seal had held the water out, so it made a sucking sound opening up. Not exactly finders keep, according to maritime law. But close enough.

What the hell? Anita said.

Holy shit, I said. And then I added a piratical Arrrhh for measure. Edward Teach had sailed the Bay, as had William Kidd: there was lots of precedence.

There were six dividers, making up seven equal sections, lined in black felting. The strong morning light, painful on the anchor, was gentler on the polished stones inside. They flashed with facets, glowed from fat curves, stones as clear as high-dollar gin to blue near as black, from small as a black-eyed pea to big as an acorn.

Oh my my my, she said.

Chapter Five

The Stones

Anita stirred each section with a finger. Each section was six inches across, four inches wide, three deep. The stones clicked softly with weight. Light came off them like the flash of silversides in cool water, hundreds in a school and turning together.

Honey, Anita said, these all look real. She picked up a deep blue stone, holding it to the sunlight. Of course it’s real… I mean here it is…what I meant was that they look genuine. Like gems. Josh…

I sat hard on the duckboards. My head felt thick, as it does when you ascend too fast from a hundred-foot dive, out-pacing your own rising bubbles.

I’d once pulled a 48 foot motor cruiser off a stone jetty, plugged the hull holes, pumped her out, and brought her home. Admiralty Court had awarded Samuel and me one-third of its value, about $450,000 before it hit the rocks, since she would have broken apart on the dark stones, and the bad-weather rescue was risky. It took us eleven hours to break her free. I had to wangle a canvas bra underneath, strap it tight across the deck, before we could move her. The bilge stank; the high wave crests dropped her like a wooden mallet on the rocks. We’d finished in the lousy light of two halogen spots, clouded by rain and spray. When we’d finally got her under tow behind the Ferret, her port deck cleat had let go, the nylon towline came back at us and caught Samuel across the back of his legs. He’s still got the marks.

We’d cleared about $150,000 from that job. Anita and I had just invested 20 minutes salvaging more, maybe, than I had pulled in that job and all the rest we’d done for the last decade. That is, if the gems were real. Anita rolled her blue stone, looking at the morning sun through it.

There's a star shape inside, Josh. Really, take a look. You know what I think this is? she asked.

Blue heron’s egg? I asked.

I think it's a star sapphire.

Anita, there must be a hundred in there! But there are even more of those stones, clear as gin, I said.

These, she said, stirring a finger in another compartment, may be diamonds. Or they may be CZ’s ...

If they are all... how many are there, anyway? Seven bins, maybe... I don't know, Anita. There are almost too many for them to be real. Don’t you think?

I think at least a hundred in each bin. Some are fuller than others… but at least a hundred, Anita said.

There must be 700 stones here, I said aloud. "Maybe 750. If they are real, we may be a little rich. If they’re claimed, and we get a percentage salvage payout. If it’s legal; I