Rick Boyer: Billingsgate Shoal

Next I called the Massachusetts Boat Registry. It didn't take more than a few seconds to discover there was no boat of Penelope's description registered in the state. There was a sailboat named Penelope out of Rockport. That was it. So much for that.

Since it was late, I decided to check the USCG Regional HQ next morning. I went in person. Driving Mary's Audi with my cast was easy since there was no gearshift to contend with. I parked in the lot behind the Boston Garden, walked by North Station, through the Garden, and found myself on Causeway Street. It's a typical Boston street: dirty, noisy, crowded and charming. The Green Line trolley tracks run over it, just like the way the El tracks cover Wabash Street in Chicago. I heard the rattle of the trolley and the cooing of millions of pigeons. It seems you never see baby pigeons or pigeon nests, and you hardly ever come across a dead one either. They must spring up spontaneously from breadcrumbs or something and disappear into thin air when they kick the bucket.

I entered the big headquarters building. On the fourth floor I found Lieutenant Commander James Ruggles. To my surprise, he had Penelope's documentation certificate in front of me in less than ten minutes. Well, it seemed to wrap up the little puzzle. I asked Ruggles if he could give me the owner's name and address so I could contact him. He stared at the page.

"New vessel,. Penelope, noncommercial vessel-"

"Noncommercial?"

"Yup. What it says. Built this year. Hailing port is Gloucester. Officially that's the port that should be on the vessel. Penelope is technically in violation."

Then that explained everything. It explained the grounding, I as suggested by McNab at the Nauset station: new boat, new skipper. It explained even the rather bizarre behavior of the boat and her crew once inside the harbor. Finally, it explained Penelope's absence from Merchant Vessels.

"Who's the owner?"

Ruggles hesitated a second.

"Why do you want the name. I'm obliged to provide it, but mind if I ask?"

I quickly told him about Allan's death, and my desire to lay at least some of the guilt to rest. He listened keenly and with patience, then looked back to the papers on his blotter. He rubbed his chin with his fingertips.

"Wallace Kinchloe, of Boston, owns the Penelope. His address is Five Blossom Street. That's right up the street; you I shouldn't have any trouble-"

He stopped in midsentence.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing. The address is familiar though. Here's the phone number. If you want to try it there's a pay phone down the hall. Good luck. Come back and let me know what you've found out."

I called the number. A musical voice oozing forced cheerfulness answered. It was the Holiday Inn. Stunned, I asked for Wallace Kinchloe. He wasn't registered. Was he ever registered there? They wouldn't say. I returned to Ruggles's office.

"Guess what?" I asked him.

"I already know. It's the downtown Holiday Inn. I just remembered."

"He isn't there either. Is there anything else on the documentation? How about a post office box?"

"Nothing. Tell me the story again."

So I did. Lieutenant Commander Ruggles continued to stroke his chin thoughtfully.

"According to this, Wallace Kinchloe was born in Danbury, Connecticut, August 4, 1913. He resided in Cohasset until a little over two years ago. Now he is listing his address as temporary, which fits with the Holiday Inn. Under remarks are two words: in transit.

"In transit?"

" 'In transit.' Not much to go on. Here's more though; the boatbuilder who built Penelope is required by law to fill out one of these."

He waved a small square of paper at me. It had a fancy engraved border, two signatures, and some sort of. government seal. Very official.

"This is a Master Carpenter's Certificate, which states that such-and-such a vessel actually was constructed at such-and-such a time and that delivery of said vessel actually took place at a certain time by a certain party. OK?"

"Of course. Like a title to ea car."

"Uh, no. The title is the Documentation Certificate that we've already looked at. This certificate actually corresponds more closely to the certificate of origin of a car, telling who made it where."

"Gotcha."

"Thing is. Thing is this: sometimes people fake them."

"Why?"

"Well think about it awhile. Sometimes it's advantageous to make a boat vanish or appear. Suppose a fisherman's down on his luck, and how many aren't these days? He's got a boat that's losing money and can't keep up the payments. The boat is a dead duck. So he hauls it someplace where it can be altered, mostly in the superstructure-you know, cabins, wheelhouse, anything but the hull, which stays. Metal boats are better because. they can be made to look new more easily.. ."

I had settled back into my chair like dandelion fluff on a doormat. I was all ears.

"He gets a boatbuilder to do the alteration. Fine. Then the big thing: he pays the boatbuilder to put his name to one of these-"

He waved the Master Carpenter's Certificate at me again.

"Now let's return to our fisherman friend who's broke. 'What's happened to your boat?' people ask. 'Sunk,' he says, and files a big fat insurance claim. How can anyone dispute him? We can't find a trace of it. A lot of claims say the boat was stolen, not sunk. But the net result is of course the same. What happens? Six weeks later a 'new' boat emerges from the boatyard, with a new name and documentation number.

But of course it's really the old boat on which the fisherman has now collected his insurance coverage and paid off the mortgage, and given the builder a sizeable chunk too. The results: a free boat. No more debts."

"Ah hah! Very clever."

"Ah yes. But remember: just as the owner has defied the law, the boatbuilder who does the alteration and deliberately falsifies a carpenter's certificate has his head in the noose too. Maybe more so, because if caught in perjury-which this is-he cannot ply his trade any longer. He is in what fishermen call 'deep shit.' "

I walked over to the window and looked down at the cars crawling along toward the North End. Behind them was Boston Harbor. In the far distance, through the bluish-gray haze, I could see tiny specks of fishing boats returning. They each trailed a white-gray thread of wake.

"The Penelope was built in Gloucester by Murdock's boatyard, Daniel Murdock, owner. Here's his signature."

I looked at the small square of paper and copied down the name.

"All I want to do is talk with Kinchloe for a few seconds," I said. "It's so frustrating to be unable to reach him."

' "He might be living aboard his boat. That could explain the in transit."

"I bet that's it. So how do I-locate the boat'?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Hang around the harbors. Talk to the harbormasters and other fishermen and boaters. I don't know. We can't help."

"I'm wondering if he has a post office box."

"They won't tell you; that's confidential. You may inquire about a company but not an individual?

"I've got a way to find out. My brother-in-law's a cop."

"Ahhh. Let me know if you uncover anything interesting, OK?"

"Sure will. And, Mr. Ruggles, thanks a lot."

"My job; don't mention it. Buzz me anytime you have a question."

I left the building and headed home. The more I pursued the green boat and her owner the stranger it appeared. Then I remembered I had photographs of her, and of somebody on board. The developed negatives were hanging in the dustproof cabinet in my darkroom. When I arrived I took out the long strips of film, cut them into convenient lengths, and ran a contact sheet. I examined the tiny pictures, just slightly bigger than postage stamps, with a loupe. I had taken six shots of the boat as we had passed it. I selected two shots of the boat and enlarged them. One shot was a side view directly I off her beam, the other a view of her stem off her starboard quarter.