Rick Boyer: Billingsgate Shoal

"Wow. No wonder you feel so bad. Who wouldn't?"

Just exactly what I wanted to hear. It made my day.

I left the tiny office with the names of the seven local boats carrying the name Penelope. According to McNab we couldn't find the name because the boat was new, was a noncommercial boat, or there was a foul-up with the port listings. The third possibility seemed the least likely to me since none of the vessels listed matched the green trawler's dimensions. To me the most likely explanation was a new boat and an inexperienced skipper. That would also explain the damaged hull-no doubt caused by faulty navigation-and the grounding on Billingsgate.

And then-I thought of poor Sarah Hart, alone now. I still had to go pay my respects. I wasn't relishing the task, and maybe that's one reason I wasn't paying attention as I headed back to the car.

It happened as I was leaving the path and entering the big parking lot at the top of the beach. Even now as I think about that instant I am wracked with pain. I was walking out between two cars (not the brightest thing to do, I'll admit when a kid on a moped hit me. More specifically, he hit my wrist. He crushed my poor wrist between the tail fin of an aging Cadillac, Eldorado and his handle bar, which was traveling at a nice clip.

I don't remember the instant of impact because I went into semiconsciouness during it or shortly afterward. I awoke to see some pendulous breasts in a scanty halter swaying over me. It probably would have been a great view under other circumstances. The spectators ohhhed and ahhhed at me. I rose into a sitting position and looked at my hand. The back was gashed open and bleeding; it looked like a slab of barbequed pork. That would heal in a few days without difficulty. It was when I tried to move the fingers that the pain got interesting. It was the deep-down, systemic pain-the kind you feel go up the very center of your arm into your I brain-that told me it was serious. The damage was not of the muscles or ligaments. Bones were broken. Of this I was certain as I tried to close my hand. The Cadillac's tail fin was badly dented. Old Knucklebrain on the moped had dealt both me and the car a good one. Except the car couldn't feel it. I moaned and was helped to my feet. Soon thereafter I came face to face with my accidental assailant, who'd also been injured-in a regrettably minor fashion-as he tumbled to the parking lot concrete after maiming me. His name turned out I to be Jeremy Knobbs. Now is it any wonder that a guy so cursed in nomenclature would run down innocent pedestrians in parking lots?

I was in frankly awful pain, but refused assistance, not out of stoicism, but because I wanted to get home to Mary fast. She is a registered nurse. I wanted Mary. I wanted to cuddle my head into that deep Calabrian bosom and get sympathy. I wanted her to kiss me and say it was going to be all right.

"It looks pretty bad, Charlie," she said after looking at the left mitt for about four seconds. "This hurt?"

I let out a scream like the charging bull elephant in the movie Ivory Hunters. Then I picked myself off the floor and wiped the thick rope of saliva from my mouth.

"Hu1t, huh? You've broken at least one bone, maybe more. Let's get back to Concord, now. I'll pack the arm in ice; then put on a sling-"

Don't remember much about the ride back to Concord. Two hours after entering Emerson Hospital's emergency room, Dr. Bryce Henshaw, noted orthopedic surgeon whom I'd never heard of (but was on call that night), was troweling a thick coat of plaster over the left wrist, now immobilized by la metal brace and insensitized by a big jolt of procaine. Colleagues and associates who know us stopped by to offer condolences. Didn't seem to help. Went home. Big drink. Felt better.

Next morning I got a call from Jeremy Knobbs's father. His name was Jeremy too. It figured. It wasn't a good way to begin the day. I was quick to realize that I could not ply my trade as oral surgeon with one arm in a cast, and stood to lose a lot of dough. I was not overly fond of Jeremy Knobbs after what he'd done to me. After arranging with the senior Knobbs to speak with various attorneys and insurance personnel, I rang off and sulked.

"Mary, I'm going down to the library and check out a book before I meet with Jeremy Knobbs. I want to do a little research so I'll know exactly how to handle this."

"That's a good idea. What's the name of the book?"

" Ancient Assyrian Tortures."

"Oh Charlie, get off it. It was an accident. Also, you weren't looking where you were going, you admitted that."

I rubbed my new cast and groaned. "If the kid had had any sense at all he wouldn't have been flying through that lot. It was an accident but it was his fault."

"You're not really going to get a book on tortures are you? Why are you going to the library really?"

"I'm going to get some fiction. God knows I'll have plenty of time on my hands-er, my hand-now that I'm unemployed. And I was thinking of researching tortures, if for no other reason than to soothe my troubled spirit."

"Speaking of tortures, I once heard that crucifixion was the worst ever."

"I've considered crucifixion for young Jeremy Knobbs. But I rejected it."

"On religious grounds?"

"Nah. Too swift."

I picked up the phone.

I was in a better frame of mind. Slightly. My insurance, for which I pay a small fortune, would adequately cover lost revenues caused by the injury. Additionally, I was pleased to discover that the policy-especially designed for surgeons-also provided for a sizeable cash settlement for any incapacitating injury to the hands, regardless of prognosis of recovery.

So I had eight weeks of paid vacation until my wrist mended which would happen, I was assured-and enough cash to pay for the Ella Hatton , which we'd bought earlier in the spring. I could grasp with my left hand slightly, despite the cast.

Still, I was in pain and irritated at my forced idleness. Young Jeremy was fortunate indeed to have escaped my wrath. I dialed the number given to me by directory assistance. It rang twice and a woman answered. I asked for Mr. Babcock.

"Mr. Babcock? Is this Mr. Jack Babcock of Newport?"

"Yeah it's me. Who's this?"

"Mr. Babcock, I'd like to buy your boat."

"Who is this?"

"Name is Adams, Charles Adams. Do you own a boat, sir?"

"Yes but she's not for sale. That is… uh… unless you'd like to talk about it, I guess."

Obviously business was booming for Babcock, as it was for almost all independent fishermen in New England. No doubt five grand down and a promissory note and I could become a skipper tomorrow, and Babcock could get another job with a bright financial future, like dispensing detergent in the local Laundromat.

"Didn't I see your boat up in Wellfleet the other day?"

"Nope. Never been up there. I'm out of Newport."

"Oh. What's your vessel's name, may I ask?"

"She's the Penelope. Hate the name. Wife's dear-"

"Uh… I must have it confused with another-can you quickly describe the boat please? Then I'll leave you alone."

"Sure. Sixty-two feet, white with red gunnels. Built in Gulfport, Mississippi, six years ago. Twin Cummins diesels-"

"Oh sorry, you know I made a mistake. It must have been another Penelope I saw."

"She's a beaut, no foolin'. Besides the engines she's got loran and radar. Long-range VHF radio. Four berths. I could transfer the mortgage and-"

I called the other six in the course of the day. Four times I spoke with the wife since the owner was out fishing. The only two vessels that could possibly match the boat I saw in Wellfleet were far away; one in Bath, Maine, the other in Elizabethtown on Martha's Vineyard. I was impressed by the statistics I had copied from Merchant Vessels too; the descriptions offered by the skippers and their wives matched the figures in the book very closely.