Whale Gulch by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

“Dag darn it!” he shouts in exasperational frustration from the transom of the skiff. “No luck. Don’t know what the hell the problem is.” Can’t believe this has happened. Right now. Such terrible timing. Need to get this outboard motor started … quickly. We’re drifting in … in towards those nasty-looking rocks. Not good. Not good at all.

“Is it out of fuel, mon beau?” [‘my boyfriend’ in French] an early-30-something, light-brown-haired, crimson-jacketed Canadian American woman queries from the front of the 15’ (4.72 meters long) open-air, wooden vessel.

“No, sweetie; it’s got plenty of gasoline,” the yellow-to-blonde-haired, barrel-torsoed, 40-ish, vanilla-white-face-becoming-flushed Norwegian American replies in a highly annoyed tone of voice. “It was running just fine. I can’t believe the damn thing crapped out.” Crapped out?

“Is there anything that I can do to help, honey?” the slender lady asks with a suddenly concerned look.

“Sweetheart, grab an oar and use it to fend off the rocks. You take the port side; I’ll take the starboard side.”

“Port is left, right?” She remembered. / Left is right. Such an odd language.

“Correct, sweetie. Get ready to push off. A rock is coming up. See it? It’s just under the surface. Easy does it. Don’t lurch out too far and fall overboard.” Of course not! Does he really think I’m ‘that’ clumsy?

“I see it. Got it.” Nice. She did that perfectly.

“Excellent, my sexy sailor. I’ll now push off the one on my side. We’ll just float in and let the boat beach itself. Anyway, it will be easier to diagnose this – much easier for me to think – without all of the nauseating motion from the ocean.” Ocean motion? He’s panicking. Sure hope he can get it running. What if we’re stranded here for the night? Who would know where we are? Did he tell anyone about our outing? How cold is it going to get tonight? / God, I sure hope I can get this engine running. Soon. Forgot to tell Martin [a dockhand] which way we were headed. Boy, the pressure is certainly on now. This could be a long, cold, disastrous night. Valérie would never forgive me. Would she even break off our engagement? No wedding next year? Susan [Valérie’s best friend] said that she’s a woman who does not tolerate incompetence. I have got to get this outboard started. Some way. Somehow. No two ways about it. Hope I get lucky. Please.

Jørn surveys the scene as some mid-afternoon sunlight slithers through rips in the low-hovering overcast blanket. The water is now only about five feet (1½ meters) deep. The small swells continue to push the watercraft beachward. Looks completely deserted. Must get this engine running. / Don’t want to be stuck on this beach overnight. Hope he gets it fixed before dark.

“Almost there, honey,” Jørn announces as he gives one last shove from a buried-except-for-an-angular-protrusion chunk of gabbro with the splintering-from-dry-rot oar.

The skiff slides onto the ash-colored northern California sand. Jørn jumps off the bow and pulls the boat further up the beach. An unexpected, bitingly chilly, northwesterly maritime gust makes his back momentarily shiver. Then the muted sun disappears again behind the pewter-gray, sky-spanning cloud curtain. Feels like I’m in a bad [silent] movie – a tragic movie. Must try to stay positive. Must not panic. Must methodically troubleshoot this.

Jørn then helps Valérie off the skiff. She takes a seat on the trunk of a downed tanoak. Her mirthless, worried expression scares the seabirds away. Soon Jørn is trying to figure out exactly where the glitch is on the silver outboard motor.

“Hello there!” The adult male voice startles Valérie. “My name is Matt. Having some engine trouble?” Where did he come from? Out of the woods it would seem. Hope he isn’t trouble.

Jørn snaps his head around. “Yeah, you could say that.” Wonder what that fellow does for a living. Hope he’s not up to no good. Don’t have any kind of weapon. Wish Valérie would get back in the boat.

“What kind of outboard is it?” the rustically clothed, black-wool-beanie-capped, four-days-of-rusty-stubble, late-twenty-something Caucasian man asks.

“It’s a ’27 Champion – a St. Paul [Minnesota] model. Guess I should have stuck with Evinrude.”

“Champions are fine,” Matt assures.

“Maybe I got a dud,” Jørn replies sans humor.

“Mind if I have a look?” the from-out-of-nowhere stranger entreats. Does this guy really know about outboard engines? Is it a ploy? Would he conk me on the back of the head? To ball Valérie? Maybe just paranoid.

“No, not at all. Here, let me help you aboard.” Don’t think he has a gun. Nor a large knife. He seems genial enough. Must be some eccentric hermit type. Though, must not let my guard down.

Matt swiftly begins to inspect the fuel line. He traces a hidden section with his left index finger. And feels a kink. He depresses the vee, flattening it. “Ok, maybe try to start it now,” Matt proposes.

Jørn gives the spin-knob a whirl. The engine fires right up. Wow! He knew what he was doing. / So glad to hear that engine running. That man is a godsend.

“Yes!” Jørn exclaims. “Thanks so much, pal. So, what was the problem? A mis-positioned lever?”

“The fuel line was pinched. That’s all. I’ve seen it happen with these models. Avoid turning sharply if at all possible.”

“Will do. Ok, how much do I owe you?” Hope what I have in my front pocket is sufficient.

“Nothing, sir. Glad to help.”

“No, here – take these three dollars. [about $45 in 2020] Really. I insist.”

Matt reluctantly takes the greenbacks. “Thanks. This is the most money I’ve had in a while. But, to be honest, I really don’t need much money. I fish and rake for clams. I’ve got a vegetable garden back at the house.”

“I see. Just living off the sea and land. Keeping it simple.” Jørn then nods to Valérie with a time-to-go expression.

“Do you live alone, Matt?” Valérie promptly asks from the midsection of the skiff. Oh, Valérie, just stop.

“No, I’m married to a Mattole. [a Native American sub-tribe of coastal Humboldt County] We live about a mile [1.6 km] from here.” Hmmm … Is he really married? No ring on any finger. He doesn’t look like a married man.

“How did you end up out here?” Jørn then asks. Can’t wait to hear his answer. Bet he lies. Maybe he’s on the lam.

“My parents, my older brother and baby sister all died from the Spanish Flu. [the 1918-20 influenza pandemic] Not sure why I was spared. I fled the orphanage in Redding within a year. Just couldn’t take it. Too many rules. Too restricted. I initially lived in a cave.” He lived in a cave?!

“Is your wife back at the house?” Valérie enquires. C’mon, let’s go. Stop talking to him!

“She’s probably still out gathering berries and roots,” Matt answers. “So, what do you guys do for work?”

“I buy and sell stocks down in Frisco,” [San Francisco] Jørn informs. “This decade has been very good to me. And there seems to be no end in sight ever since The Great War [World War I] wrapped up. You know, Matt, that god-awful, trench-warfare-carnage misadventure was probably the last large-scale military conflict on this planet. Humanity has now learned its lesson. It’s propitious smooth-sailing from here on. This is a golden age without end. I plan on buying a mansion for us with a bay view next month. Oh, by the way, we’re engaged. Our wedding date is tentatively set for next spring – probably in May when it’s not so chilly.” Wow! What a slick liar he suddenly is. We haven’t agreed to a wedding timetable. Why did he say that?

“Is that so, captain?” Valérie interjects.

Jørn winks at Valérie and smiles. “Basically, I bring home sacks of gathered loot; princess then re-spreads it.”

“He thinks he’s funny, Matt.” Valérie immediately sticks her tongue out at Jørn in a playful-yet-taunting fashion.

“We’re just up here for the weekend,” Jørn then discloses.

“He wanted to test out his new toy, Matt. I’m so glad that you were here. You’re a lifesaver! I really can’t thank you enough.” Does she really think that I never would have discovered that fuel-line blockage? Is she flirting with him? Enough of this emerging drama. It’s time to get the hell out of here.

“Well, it’s been great meeting you, Matt,” Jørn then states. “Wish we could stay longer, but we really must go. Thanks for the help. All the best to you and yours.”

Matt disembarks. He then pushes the bow of the smooth-hulled skiff, helping it slide back out to sea. Soon the full-throttle outboard is briskly propelling the watercraft out into the open ocean. Everyone waves. Then they are out of sight.

Nine conversation-less minutes later, Jørn decelerates the outboard. The engine noise drops by a factor of four. “What a sad schlepper,” he declares as he gently turns for the small Shelter Cove marina. He’s jealous of Matt, because he found and fixed the engine issue.

“He seems content, dear,” Valérie retorts.

“The guy once lived in a cave for Chrissakes! What does that tell you? He’s a nut! A human squirrel eating nuts. He’s part Neanderthal, I tell ya.” Insulting good folks once again. A bad trait.

“Why do you have to run him down? His life is his business. And that ‘human squirrel’ saved us.” Valérie gives Jørn an icy glare. And then pouts. What the hell is wrong with her? Why is she suddenly so moody? Valérie should be ecstatic that we’ll be in warm, dry beds tonight. But no, it’s all ‘Rejoice Matt the savior.’ Women! / Not sure about him. Not sure if I could live with Jørn for 50 years. Think I might pull my hair out. Men!

Two days later is October 28, 1929 – the infamous Black Monday (the day the stock market in New York plummeted 12.8%). Valérie and Jørn would be split-up before Thanksgiving. Matt and his wife would never know about the crash until 1935, when another boat in distress was encountered near Whale Gulch.