Authors: Hank Manley
Warren waved away the suggestion. “Did I hear you correctly? Did you say this was Warderick Wells?”
“Yes.”
Warren shook his head in contemplation. “I’ve been here, I think,” he said. “Is there a natural well with fresh water on the other side of the island?”
The ranger smiled and pointed to a trail that departed the beach into the jungle. “There certainly is. That’s what the pirates called ‘the Wells’,” he said. “It was a sanctuary where Blackbeard and Calico Jack Rackman and Mary Read waited to attack passing ships. The large rocks that shelter the anchorage are named after them.”
Warren stared at the park ranger in amazement. His mind spun with a dozen questions, but he didn’t know where to begin. Confusion momentarily froze his mind.
“Oh, I understand now,” the ranger said with a conspiratorial smile. “You’ve been over at the wells playing pirate. I can see by your billowy red shirt and the toy sword in the bottom of your little vessel.”
Warren glanced down in the bilge. The sword Mary had taken from the Spanish sailor lay in an inch of water next to his thick pouch of gold coins and jewelry.
“May I see the sword?” the warden asked.
“Sure.” Warren said absently as handed the weapon to the warden. His concentration was focused on a prompt return home.
“Wow,” the warden exclaimed. “It’s heavy. It’s not a toy. It looks . . . it looks real.”
Warren didn’t want to be rude to the ranger who was polite and concerned, but he didn’t feel like delaying the start of his return trip any longer. He realized he was extremely thirsty. His throat was parched and he was famished. He knew Shelly must be starved for nutrition as well. He needed to secure some food and water for his dog and himself. Then he was anxious to set off for Serenity Cay and see his parents.
“Is there a place we can get something to eat and drink on the island? And if you’d be kind enough to point us in the direction of Serenity cay, we’d like to head for home as soon as possible.”
Conchshell was standing rigidly in the water beside the dory. Her tail was extended behind, one front leg was cocked in the classic bird dog pointing position, and her head was turned directly to the northwest.
“We have snacks and water at the ranger station,” the warden said. “Serenity Cay is in the direction of your dog’s nose. He knows the way home. He’s pointing directly at the island now. But I can’t let you sail off alone.”
“Could you call my parents and let them know I’m on the way?” Warren asked. “I know they would appreciate it.”
“We don’t have phone service on the island,” the ranger said. “Warderick Wells is uninhabited except for the ranger station. Our only means of communication is VHF radio, and Serenity Cay is beyond our range. But I don’t want you sailing off alone with your dog. I insist that you wait for somebody to help you.”
Warren shook his head and waved goodbye. “Thanks for your help,” he said. “I appreciate your concern, but I just want to get home as quickly as possible, I know my parents are really worried
about me
.”
“You must wait here for help,” the ranger pleaded.
“I’ve waited long enough,” Warren said simply. “If you can relay a message to Serenity Cay, that would be wonderful, but it’s time for me to go home.”
“I’ll try to hail a nearby boat on the VHF radio. Perhaps they can relay a message,” the ranger said. “But I really hate to see you head out alone.”
“Don’t worry,” Warren said. “I’ve been on my own a lot lately. Another day won’t matter.”
* * *
Stocked with several bottles of fresh water and a supply of crackers and nuts from the ranger station, Warren hoisted the dory’s sail and set off for Serenity Cay.
The final pleas of the park warden had been ignored. Conchshell stood in the bow and sniffed at the clean, salty air. The wind was from the east, and the sail filled smartly and pushed the little vessel along on a true course. With the breeze in its present direction, Warren would not have to tack for the entire journey home.
The sun burned brightly in the cloudless morning sky. The waves rolled gently over the cobalt sea with only an occasional white cap to punctuate the beauty of the scene. Flying fish burst from the ocean, snapped their tails against the water to gain altitude, spread their gossamer wings, and glided for fifty yards before knifing below the surface.
Man-o-War birds soared high overhead, their enormous wings spread wide, searching for groups of bait driven to the surface by the pelagic fish prowling the depths below.
A school of bottlenose dolphin swept past the dory, joyfully riding down the face of the waves, slicing through the ocean with an imperceptible movement of their powerful tails.
Conchshell barked happily at the playful behavior of her ancient ancestors who had begun life in the water, migrated to the land and walked on four legs, and then returned to the ocean to live as air breathing inhabitants of the seven seas. Proof of their journey from the land back to the ocean could be found in the skeletal evidence of a vestigial knee joint in the rear fins of the aquatic animals.
The afternoon brought a smattering of clouds. Summer squalls appeared on the horizon, and Warren sailed through two brief downpours of heavy rain. The plump drops splattered in the dory’s bilge and several inches of water quickly accumulated. Warren bailed the little boat with one of the plastic bottles.
“The rain is refreshing, isn’t it?” he asked Conchshell in an effort to break the boredom of sailing. “At least it takes some of the heat out of the air.”
The Labrador used the occasion to lap water from the bottom of the boat. Her efforts to shake the rain from her coat provided Warren with a welcome shower.
Lingering clouds obscured the setting sun and hastened the approach of nightfall. The air cooled and Warren felt a chill across his neck from the following breeze.
Conchshell dropped down from her vigilance in the bow and lay in the bottom of the dory. She closed her eyes and fell asleep, tired of the monotonous sail, leaving Warren alone to navigate toward Serenity Cay.
A thin lattice of low cloud veiled the stars. Warren was not able to distinguish any of the constellations. He maintained course relative to the wind, hoping no shifts of direction had occurred which would vector the dory away from the intended northwest heading.
His eyes drooped with fatigue. He ate the last of the crackers to remain awake, ignoring the fact he wasn’t hungry. His head flopped to his chest several times and he fought to remain alert. There was no light on the ocean in any direction. Was there not a single boat at sea on this dreary night? Warren stood and looked around. Only blackness greeted him as he rotated three hundred-sixty degrees.
Disheartened, exhausted and discouraged, Warren slumped in the bilge of the dory and braced himself against the transom with the tiller tucked under one arm. The little sailing vessel appeared able to maintain course with his body in this position of repose. He decided he could shut his eyes for a minute. Then he would alertly look around for the lights of any passing vessels or indications of an approaching island.
Warren immediately fell into a deep slumber, his young body drained of energy.
* * *
Soft finger tips brushed tenderly across Warren’s salty cheek. Warm lips pressed against his puckered mouth. An adoring hand stroked the matted hair from his forehead. “It’s time to wake up,” whispered gently in his ear.
Warren peered up into a chimera of light dancing before his face. Mary Read’s smiling countenance beamed benevolently down on him. Her eyes were filled with love. “You need to wake, my darling,” the apparition said kindly.
Warren bolted upright. His eyes snapped open. The sound of breaking surf assaulted his eardrums, and his heart raced with concern.
A dreary dawn had just broken. Gray sky melded with a gray ocean. Breaking waves surrounded the dory. An inhospitable rocky coast loomed directly ahead of the little boat.
Warren pushed the tiller hard to port. The bow of the dory snapped abruptly to starboard. The boom flew across the hull as the little boat executed an awkward jibe. The sail flapped wildly as it momentarily faced directly into the wind. Then the breeze punched the sail tight and the little boat moved slowly away from the shoal water.
“That was close, Shelly,” Warren whispered to the dog who had been rocked to consciousness by the sudden change of direction.
Warren turned and studied the landmass which had nearly claimed his sailing vessel and was now receding in the vague light of the early morning. “I think I recognize that point of land, Shelly girl,” he said. “Yes. It’s the very southern end of Serenity Cay. Dad and I sailed down this way when we first arrived on the island.”
Conchshell barked enthusiastically. Familiar scents wafted across her nostrils from the shores of her summer home.
Warren tacked against the wind and proceeded up the coast for three miles until he passed the Serenity Cay settlement nestled above the craggy beach. “Just another half a mile,” he said to Shelly. “We’re almost home.”
The beach in front of the rented cottage appeared around a coral outcropping. The water had receded to normal levels since the hurricane. Warren sailed the dory across the shallow flat and beached the boat below the unlit porch fronting the house. He lowered the sail and crawled over the gunwale.
The young pirate’s legs wobbled in the wet sand. He pulled the anchor from the bow of the boat and dropped it on the beach, too tired to walk it farther ashore.
Conchshell placed her paws on the side of the dory and barely had the strength to tumble across the gunwale and out of the boat.
“We should wake Mom and Dad and tell them we’re home,” Warren said. “I know they’re worried.”
Together Warren and Shelly staggered to the porch and opened the door. Their eyes drooped with fatigue. Their limbs sagged with exhaustion.
“Maybe I’ll just lie down on the couch out here for a minute,” Warren decided. “Nobody’s awake yet in the house. Let’s let Mom and Dad sleep.”
“M
organ!” Rhonda Early screamed when she stumbled down the stairs, wandered to the porch, and saw her son and his dog asleep on the couch. “Morgan! Oh, thank goodness! They’re home.”
Rhonda raced to the comatose child and threw her arms around his inert body. “Where have you been?” she shouted. “We’ve been so worried. I was scared to death.”
Conchshell lifted her head, looked wearily at Rhonda, and slid off the couch. The Labrador wandered to an empty chair and coiled her body beneath it to resume sleeping.
Warren forced his eyes open and smiled at his mother. “I was afraid you’d be worried,” he said. “I rushed home as fast as I could.”
Morgan Early bounded down the cottage stairs and rushed to the porch. He grabbed his son from the couch and held him in a tight embrace. “Oh, Warren,” he said choking on the words. “I was terrified we’d never see you again. What happened? Where did you go?”
“Are you hungry?” Rhonda asked. “Can I get you anything? Do you need water or something to eat?”
Warren smiled and kissed his father on his whiskery cheek. “I’m okay,” he said. “Mostly I think I need sleep. I was sailing all day and all night to get back here.”
Morgan placed his son gingerly on the couch.
“You’ve got to tell us what happened,” he said. “We were frantic with worry. Your mother called me the morning after the hurricane and told me you and Shelly had disappeared. She said the dory was gone. Did you get swept away in the storm?”
Warren drew in a deep breath. Sleep was foremost on his mind, but he knew his parents were anxious to hear what happened. Perhaps he could briefly recount his adventures and then take a long nap.
“Shelly saw the dory getting swept away in the hurricane and woke me up,” the young man began. “I ran down and tried to save the boat. Shelly was pulled in by a huge wave, and I had to save her. By the time I got her in the boat, we had drifted away from the beach. The wind was too strong. I couldn’t touch the bottom with the oar. I couldn’t stop us from blowing away.”
“How far did you go?” Rhonda asked.
Warren thought a minute. He really didn’t know the answer. “I guess we were swept to a sea too far . . . too far to get back.”
Morgan looked at his son in confusion. “Where did you finally wind up? You must have eventually landed on an island.”
“Oh, yes,” Warren said. “The next morning we woke up at the Wells. It’s the place where the pirates hide while waiting for ships to plunder.”
Rhonda immediately looked at her husband with genuine concern. Morgan returned the worried expression. “Pirates?” she said dubiously. “Real pirates?”
Warren opened his hands to indicate the obvious answer. “Of course,” he said. “I met Blackbeard, and he saved me from hanging by some of his crew. Then I met Mary Read. She was dressed as a man then, but she was very nice to me. She gave me something to eat, and I had a drink of water from the well.”
Morgan’s face blanched. What had happened to his son? Had the boy gone crazy floating around on the ocean all alone? He sat speechless as Warren’s story flowed with increased rapidity.
Rhonda bit her lip. She felt a tremor of terror in her chest. What had really transpired in the dory? She thought of stopping her son and demanding that he cease his insane tale, but she feared saying something to further upset him in his obviously troubled condition.
“Then we all got aboard the
Queen Anne’s Revenge
and attacked a French merchant ship,” Warren continued undaunted. “Mary and I fought together, and it was really exciting. We had to jump from our ship to their ship across the opening. The cannons had fired and the deck was covered with smoke.”
Morgan opened his mouth, but Rhonda waved her hand to stop him from interrupting. Their son’s tale was too fantastic to believe, except that it was pouring forth unrehearsed from his lips as if it had actually happened. Nobody could make up such a convoluted story with such spontaneity.
“Afterward, I wanted to sail to Nassau because I thought I could find somebody there who could direct me back home, but Blackbeard wanted to go to Charles Town,” Warren said.