They call her the Flying Fish. You can see from the sleekness of her lines that she used to be fast while she was in the water. But that was a long time ago. Now she lies on her side in the meadow on windward side of the pier, just above the high water mark. Her hull planks are cracked and dry, her paint is peeling off in sheets, and what remains of her sails are spotted with mold. It was the old harbor master who had her moved to this spot after she drifted ashore during the great storm all those years ago. No one knows what happened to her owner, Tom Collins. Of course, the most reasonable explanation is that he got washed overboard during the storm and drowned. However, some people, the harbour master among them, believe that he is still alive somewhere out there. They say that young captain Tom, as they would call him, was the best sailor, not just in our village but the entire north west coast, maybe even the entire country. If anyone could have survived sailing through that storm, it would have been him. It was out of respect for Tom that the harbor master had the Flying Fish moved to higher ground. Most other boats would have been left where they washed ashore, to be left vulnerable to subsequent storms.

I once tried asking the harbor master about Tom but he just mumbled something and turned to walk away. As I was standing there somewhat dejected looking at his receding back, Mr. Bartlebooth, one of the old geezers who used to hang around in the harbour swapping stories, came up to me.
“Yer wantin te know ’bout young cap’n Tom?”
I nodded
“Well, te harbr master ent the only wun who knows. Say, do ye know how te sail, boy?”
“Aye, I do!”
“Then meet me here at dawn temorrow.” Before I could answer he turned and started strolling away. After a couple of meters he turned his head and hollered “And bring a flask o’ coffee and a couple sanwiches, it’s gonnae be a long day.”

The next day I arrived in the harbour just as the sky was turning from pink to blue. Mr. Bartlebooth showed me to a beautiful old wooden boat with a white hull, weathered teak half decks fore and aft, and a roomy cockpit in the middle. We motored out some distance beyond the breakwaters, the little diesel engine thumping along rhythmically, then set a course southward along the coast. After a short while, Mr. Bartlebooth ordered me to hoist the sails. With the sails set he let the boat settle into its rhythm before killing the engine. We sat in silence for a couple of minutes, nothing but the splash of the waves against the hull and the creaking of the halyards to keep us company. Just as I was beginning to think we would stay silent the entire journey, Mr. Bartlebooth started telling his story.

“Anyone can learn te sail,” he shot me a pointed look, “but it takes yearrs of experience te learn te read the wind and the waves. Toms fathir was a fisherman who used an old dorry te tend te his nets. On Sundays, if the weathir was clear, he would take his yuung son oot with him and teach him how te sail. Tom was probably no more’an five when held a tiller for the first tyme. Eventually the fathir found some moderate success and bought hisself a bigger boat; the dorry became Tom’s. The lad sailed that boat whenever he a chance, an by the tyme he was 15 he could read the weathir as well as any man. By that point the dorry was old an beat up, but he couldn’t afferd another boat so when he wasint sailin’ er, he was fixin’ er up; scrounging up the materials he needed in whatever way he could. Nothin’ teaches a man how te shape a piece o’ wud like rebuildin’ yer own boat plank by plank.

That summer a man from the Weller Company came to these parts on vacation togethir with his wife an child. Not sure why, as the Weller Company is located down south in New Haven. If twere me going on vacation I would have gone down te New Haven, but what do I know. Anyway, wun mornin’ the little family were down te the harbr showing the boats to their yuung girl an all that. They saw Tom werkin’ away in his shed an stayed a while te watch. The man recognized that our lad had already acquired some skill at wudwerkin’ an offered him a spot as apprentice in the Weller Company boat yard. Tom accepted of course an some days later he set off down te New Haven. We didn’t see much o’ him here in the village after that.

Twas well neigh fifteen yearrs later that Tom moved back te the village. I got te talking te him wun afternoon and he told me why he moved back. He said he had werked hard at his apprenticeship and soon enough he was considered wun o’ the better shipwrights in the yard. He could have made a good career oot o’ that but, he told me, he longed te be on the ocean. So, he quit his job in the yard an signed on as a deckhand on wun o’ the company’s ships. Over the yearrs he worked hisself up through the ranks until he was given his own command. Twas the smallest of the Weller Company’s ships but yuung Tom didnae care; he had a ship and as long as he could deliver his cargo on tyme, he could sail ‘er as he saw fit. He captained that ship fer several yearrs, takin’ er up an down the coast dozens of tymes on behalf of the company. Of course, at that tyme the Weller Company’s ships were all fitted with steam or diesel already. As much as he enjoyed being the master o’ a ship, Tom wanted te sail – ye know, properly sail – and he knew that would never happen as long as he was a company man. So, as soon as he had saved up ‘nough money, he quite the job an moved back ‘ere.

Tom’s old folks were still with us back then, and he moved back into their house. He started werkin’ on his new boat right away and this time he needn’t scrounge materials; he bought hisself the finest timbers that he could find in these parts. Liek I said, Tom already had some talent for wudwerkin’ back when he was repairin’ his ol dorry but he had acquired a good deal more skill during his years in the Weller boat yard. Let me tell ye, twas a right pleasure te see the man werk. I’m sure ye know he lofted the lines o’ the hull hisself. He knew exactly what kind o’ boat he wanted an how he wanted er te sail, an he trusted none else te make the drawings. I’ve heard tell that when a skilled craftsman is making something for his own use, and really puts his soul into the werk, he imbues that thing with something akin te magic. Well, when I saw the finished hull I could easily believe it te be true. Twas a thing o’ beauty: those long slender lines and the varnish gleaming in the sunlight. She might not look much for the world now, but when she was launched she was the most beautiful boat anywun in the village had ever seen.”

At this point the old man fell silent with a sort of dreamy look on his face. After a few minutes he started up again. “Now where was I. Liek many an old hand I was down te the harbr when Tom took ‘er oot on ‘er first sea trial. Twas a calm day, only a light breeze ruffling the surface of the water. She only made a couple knots on account o’ the light wind, but the way her bow cut through the water was a sight to behold, straight and true like a knife. I rememberr the second time I saw ‘er under sail; a moderate breeze was blowing an I was oot in this ‘ere boat tending te my lobster pots. I happened te look up as I was haulin’ aboard a pot an spotted a sail coming o’er the horizon. She was approaching faster’n I expected an I soon recognized her. Yuung Tom had yet te hoist the jib an already she was skipping across the waves, light as a feathir. I think that’s how she got her name.

From that time onward I would often see ‘er when I was oot sailin’. Somehow she always seemed te be moving faster’n the wind would normally allow. I particularly rememberr one afternoon when I had been oot setting a few pots. The day had been calm but towarrds the evenin’ the wind started pickin’ up an soon enough twas blowin’ a stiff breeze. As the darrk clouds came rollin’ in I pointed my bow towarrds the harbr an set the engine to full ahead. I was keeping wun eye on my heading and the other on the approaching storm when I saw a boat appear oot o’ the mist. Twas the Flying Fish. To my surprise she was under full sail, absolutely flying forward, an I swear te whichever god ye please, that she was rising oot o’ the waves, only ‘er keel still in the water. A large wave crashing over the bow caught my attention for a moment, an the next tyme I looked back in ‘er direction she was gone oot o’ sight.

Later I talked te some o’ the other old hands down the harbr. Some were reluctant to admit it, but they had also seen the Flying Fish rise oot the water. We talked it over, as old sailors are wont to do, but couldn’t settle for a reason. Mr. Hackett, who in his youth lived inland where tornadoes are abound, suggested it must have been a strong wind lifting the boat. I denied it, seeing as my own boat was unaffected. The harbr master, whom you know is of a superstitious sort, believed it must be the gods o’ the sea – perhaps Poseidon hisself – picking the boat up. But I cannot abide by such an idea. Mr. Thatcher, who as a lad had sailed for the Weller Company as a deck hand – back when their ships still carried sail – suggested that it was ‘er speed that was lifting ‘er. He meant, an I agreed at the time, that the force of the water being cleft so swiftly by that pointed bow, would have to go somewhere, an so it pushed on the hull until she rose oot o’ the water.

After that day, I would always keep a sharp lookout for the Flying Fish whenever I was oot at sea. Sure ‘nough, whenever I spotted ‘er an there was more’n a light breeze blowing, she would be under full sail, moving along at a right ol’ clip – I always judged ‘er speed te be faster’n the wind – with ‘er hull oot ‘o the water. Once I even saw ‘er sailin’ with ‘er keel in the air. Some might doubt it, on account o’ it being a misty day, but I swear it’s true. When I saw that, it got me thinking ’bout that the old saying. Yuung Tom put his heart an soul into each an every plank o’ that boat – there must’ve been something there that science cannae explain…”

Mr. Bartlebooth sat quietly for a couple of minutes and then ordered me to turn back towards home. I was eager to hear more but Mr. Bartlebooth had a look on his face that indicated it was no time to talk. Sitting there in silence I was suddenly reminded of the coffee I had brought along. I pulled the thermos from the bag that I had stowed under the seat, and poured two cups. Mr. Bartlebooth took his with a nod of appreciation. We sat there sipping our brew in silence, watching the waves go by. After a few minutes, Mr. Bartlebooth started speaking again.

“Twas a mere happenstance tweren’t more people caught up in that gale. It had been a fine morning, an normally people would be going oot on the water in the afternoon, pleasure cruises and such. But for some reason many lingered after their Sunday lunch, an so, when the darrk clouds came swooping in, twere only a few boats that had left the harbr; one o’ them of course, was the Flying Fish. The Concordia, Mr. Thatcher’s boat, had also gone oot that afternoon. Twas his wife who spotted the squall coming in o’er the horizon. Now Mr. Thatcher is as capable a sailor as any, an he would have stayed the course if tweren’t for his wife asking to turn ’round. Considerin’ the size o’ that storm, I’m glad he wasn’t more stubborn. When I talked to him some days later, he said he had seen the Flying Fish – an he was sure twas ‘er – in the distance but lost sight of ‘er after he turned back towarrds port.

In those days I never did much pleasure cruisin’ myself, on account o’ getting enough o’ the sea while werking my trade. When I first saw the sky darrken I didn’t much mind, but when the wind started picking up an sheets of rain started lashing my windows, I got a feeling like I was back oot at sea; though I was all snug at home I couldn’t seem te relax. When I saw the waves breaking o’er the westward pier I could abide my four walls no longer. I took my great coat and made my way down to the harbr. Let me tell ye, that storm was something te behold; though twas only afternoon, the sky was as darrk as at dusk; the boats were all dancing at their moorings; waves were washing o’er both the windward and the leeward piers, with spray shooting ten, twenty feet into the air. Several o’ the other old hands had come down te the harbr as well; twas as if we had all been driven there by some unseen force. The harbr master had checked on all the boats. After Concordia came in, twere only three still oot there, a fishing vessel only known by her registration HG 23, a small pleasure craft named Gertrude, and of course the Flying Fish.

It didnae take long before the Gertrude hove into view to leeward of the harbr. She was a small thing, an was being violently tossed about by the waves, but her skipper kept going none the less, an soon enough she was home safe. We helped the crew, consisting o’ Mr. and Mrs. Hudson an their two children, onto dry land. The poor buggers were in their Sunday clothes and had been soaked through and through by the rain. The harbr master stoked the little stove in his shack and let them dry up in there for a bit before heading home. When some warmth had returned to their bodies they explained that they had sheltered in a small cove, a short distance from our village. They had hoped that the storm would pass, but when the rain became heavier an no sign o’ the storm abating, that option became untenable, so they decided te chance it on headin’ fer home. Normally they would stay closer te the shore but where afraid o’ getting dashed against the rocks, so they had te brave the waves. Mr. Hudson is an expert o’ some sort on land, but an amateur at sea, but I tell ye he did a good job of it.

We had te wait another while yet before we saw HG 23 comin’ round the pier. She’s a seaworthy old tub an we had no real worries but still wondered why she stayed oot fer so long. After he had moored up, her skipper told us he was haulin’ in his nets when the gale swept down on him. He tried his best te get all his nets in but it wasn’t possible in those waves; eventually he had to cut his lines and his losses. Now the only boat from the village that remained at sea was the Flying fish.

By now we were also starting to get drenched by the rain, so like the Hudsons, we took shelter in the harbr master’s little shack. With the rain drumming on the roof, an the wind howling through cracks in the walls and rattling the old window panes, we stood there watching for ‘er te come back. I think we all had a desire te head oot in wun o’ our own boats and search for ‘er, but we likewise all knew it would be fruitless, so we waited in silence. We waited like that for hours, the storm never ceasing. Close to midnight we finally had to admit that she wasn’t coming back. With downcast eyes we betook ourselves homewarrd. The rest ye already know.”

At this point I was sure his story had come to an end, but to my surprise he continued. “Save for the harbr master, the other’s will deny it, but I did see something that night. Just as a flash o’ lightning lit up the sky, I saw two white sails in the distance. The strange thing is, that they weren’t on the horizon, but up in the air. Now it could be that by some coincidence, the lightning struck just as the Flying Fish was lifted high by a wave, but I don’t think it was. What I believe is that, when he built it, yuung Tom did indeed impart some form o’ magic into that vessel; an when he was sailin’ it to the fullest of his ability, not only did he make it go faster’n the wind, but he even got it to slip oot o’ Poseidon’s grip. Previously I had only seen the hull rise oot o’ the water on account o’ the light wind, but in that storm she lifted clean oot o’ the ocean, an that’s what we saw illuminated by the lightning. Twas too darrk te see what happened next, but knowing Cap’n Tom, my guess is that he flew ‘er as high up as he could and…maybe the storm took him, maybe he managed to make it above the clouds, I just don’t know.”

Mr. Bartlebooth trailed off and just sat staring out at the waves. The next time he spoke was when we were approaching the harbor and he ordered me to lower the sails and start the engine. We only exchanged a few words while mooring the boat. As soon as we were done Mr. Bartlebooth stepped onto the dock, gave me a quick nod, then turned to walk away without another word. I made my way around to the backside of the pier and over to the wreckage of The Flying Fish. I stood there looking at her for a while, seeing her in a new light after hearing Mr. Bartlebooth’s story. I could see it now, those lines weren’t just sleek, they were the lines of a boat capable of taking flight. I ran my hand along one of the hull planks, it was rough and dry now but – and I might have been imagining this – there was a hint of something more as well. Mr. Bartlebooth hadn’t known what happened to Captain Tom Collins, but now I knew what I believed.