Wharfinger Yarns

THOSE DAYS IN OCTOBER...
by: Ralph E. Ahseln  10/2010

Part 2

October 21st
        The day had started clear and cool, but by late evening the wind picked up to a brisk 25 knots, gusting higher. Heavy clouds had closed in and the temperature had dropped to a few degrees above freezing. Then the rain came. Heavy rain, the kind that stripped the leaves from the few trees that still had them. Everything took on a forlorn look. Even the street lights seemed to shine less and with a sickly yellow color.
It was going to be a nasty night.
        The old Wharfinger had been reading the newspaper and now with the last drop of the gin toddy drained from his cup, he was thinking of his warm bed. He’d finished the night’s inspection of the marina hours ago. During which he’d rigged an extra dock lamp at the slip he’d assigned to the new boat. Although he was tired and looking forward to bed, he couldn’t stop worrying about the lady and her Ketch arriving sometime around midnight.
At 11:45 pm he thought he might get his foul weather gear back on and wander down to the assigned slip. “Just to help” he mused.
“Stumpy” his old flea bag cat began to howl and hiss.
“Shut up you old fool” the Wharfinger whispered. Stumpy continued.

        Through the driving rain outside, the old man saw what appeared to be a masthead light in the approach to the marina. Slipping on his ragged foulies, he opened the door and went out into the storm.
        Shortly, the big ketch turned and started its move to enter the slip that had been assigned. There was little sound and the boat glided into the spot without a bit of effort. He saw a covered figure in the cockpit standing holding a spring line. The old man caught the tossed line and quickly took a bight around the slip’s mid cleat. He allowed the line to slip a few feet then snubbed it up firm. The figure in the cockpit disembarked and had a stern line secured. Moving by the old man with not a word, the person went forward to pull a bow line off the boat and secured it as well.
The Wharfinger moved alongside the person.
“Nicely done Miss. Theren’t many experienced sailors that could do as well. Welcome to Manger’s Marina”.
He had used his best “Happy voice”. The one he uses when he doesn’t know the person.
A whispered, pained, distorted, not quite feminine voice, replied in words that sounded like. “Dank ‘yeh’ ”
        Turning quickly, she walked away, and stepped on a hanging ladder to climb back aboard. As she reached the top step, a gust of wind blew back the hood of her foul weather coat. In the light of the newly placed dock lamp, her face was exposed for a brief moment.
The Wharfinger was frozen in shock. He gasped and felt the bile of revulsion creep into his throat.
She was horribly scarred! Her face looked as if it had been torn by some wild animal. Scars, marks and wrinkles, bits of fleshy bumps covered her face.
She quickly covered and disappeared down into the cabin of her boat.
 .

        On his way back to the marina office, the old wharfinger turned over in his mind the action and the sights he’d just witnessed. Then it suddenly seemed to make sense to him.
        She had requested a Midnight docking… So as to avoid any cruel “gawker”…
        She only used the telephone because of the damaged voice. Much better to blame the “poor connection” of a telephone.
        She wanted to Post the paper work rather than appearing in the glaring light of an office... Again to avoid the stares of an office staff.
        She would be staying for a short time… Better to move on after a short stay. Someone surely would have seen her...IF… she stayed too long at one location.
        And not the least, she handled that big vessel by herself... like a pro… She had to. Learning to do it alone in the dark so no one would be around to see the ugliness that she suffered.

        During his walk back to the office, the old man began to feel sympathy and sorrow for the poor young woman. (IF...she WAS young..?).
He vowed to try to make her time here at HIS marina, a pleasant one.
He wouldn’t intrude, but would try to help all he could. It was his duty.
As he opened the office door, the light inside blinded him.
He didn’t see “Stumpy” rolled up into a ball, hiding underneath the desk.
But he heard the cat hiss.

October 22nd
        It was mid-morning when he made a special trip to where the new boat was. Turning the corner of the dock and looking down the row of boats, he couldn’t miss that big ketch. It was painted black from mast truck to waterline. Black topsides, cabin, mast, spreaders, any wood and all fabric were BLACK! It was a bit of shock to see a boat so covered in one color. Or, lack of color.
        The old man walked up alongside and tapped gently on the hull. There was no response. He rapped a little harder this time. Nothing.
“Ahoy! “. His voice had authority in it. Still, there was no return to his call. He guessed that after all the noise he’d made; it was a sure thing that no one was aboard. Or they were very sound sleepers.
The lady must have left in the early morning to avoid being seen? It was a likely-hood considering.
        As he moved away, he caught a slight movement in the corner of his eye. He didn’t see it clearly enough, but he thought he heard the sound of a cat growling.
        It was time for lunch and the coffee pot still had a little left in it from breakfast. His stomach rumbled with the thought of food and a sip of that hot brown liquid so important to sailors.
He’d finished with the leftovers for himself and figured that Stumpy might enjoy the crumbs.
But, .No matter how he coaxed his fuzzy friend to come out from under the desk, it wouldn’t move. It just pulled in tighter and mewed.
As it turned out, over the next few days, Stumpy would hardly budge from his “cave”. He’d dash out to make a Pit Stop at his sand box beside the des k, then back as quickly as he could. The Wharfinger had to put his food and milk close by him or he just wouldn’t eat. “What the hell is wrong with that beast? “ he wondered.

        Along about 11:00 pm, there was a gentle knocking on the office door.
The old man had been napping and by the time he roused enough to respond, whoever had knocked was gone. He opened the door, took a step outside and looked up and down the docks. There wasn’t a thing stirring.
As he turned around he spotted a large envelope jammed into the mail box hanging on the wall in front of the office door. He opened the folder and found all the registration papers of the lease agreement and several crisp new dollar bills. Enough for the month’s fee and a large “Extra” amount. All in good order and Signed. Her first name that he’d heard was now printed out for him to see…“Marijn” (he’d heard it as “muh-rain”). Must be some kind of foreign name. The old man suddenly realized that she HAD spoken in some kind of odd dialect. At first he had though that it may have been because of the “accident” or tragic event that has so fouled her face. Now he was sure that she was from some foreign land. He didn’t know from where. Then he thought, “I wonder what the name means? Maybe I can find it. Maybe GOOGLE”...
 
He tried to get Stumpy to come out for some milk. Stump wouldn’t move.

To be continued...


Part 1

Part 3

Part 4