“My Ship Comes In” is the fourth story, a novella, in T.K. O’Neill’s Northwoods Pulp Reloaded collection of three short crime stories and this longer story.
Chapter 4
Two days later, I’m still alone on this desolate strip of beach waiting for something I’m not even sure is going to happen. But I have no other place to go and ninety-three bucks won’t get me very far in any direction. Looks like I’m stuck with sticking it out.
The adrenaline high that kept me going has washed out and left in its place rising anxiety and a longing for something I can’t identify. Also a nagging suspicion that I’ve really fucked things up this time. I know I can’t wait on this beach forever; food and patience are nearly depleted. In the back of my head, a hyena mocks my every thought.
After much soul searching I decide to leave by noon tomorrow, boat or no boat. After this much time has gone by, I can’t be sure of what or who might show up—if anybody.
Will a flotilla of coastguardsmen fresh from drug interception training be hitting the beach like the second assault on Normandy? Or will Bagley and Schmidt float in all big-timey, acting like it’s no big deal to get stood up on a lonely beach for two days by a couple of assholes.
Just because they’re the big-time smugglers and I’m the lousy pick-up guy doesn’t mean I haven’t run a few risks. If only they knew.
I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve gotten up and said to myself I’m leaving, only to sit back down, light a cigarette and wait some more. Stare out at something in the vast distance and wait. The waves just keep breaking slowly and rhythmically against the shore and the sound has become an annoyance. No longer relaxing, it grates on me like a constantly nagging voice: Sucker, sucker, sucker….
You get to a point in a situation like this where you run out of things to think about and your mind starts covering the same old territory, over and over like a broken record. Round and round she goes, where she stops nobody knows.
And if you stare long enough at nothing, something might finally appear. If it’s far enough away, an object can take the shape of many things. Sheer wishful thinking, if you’re tired enough, hungry enough or scared enough, might make you see something that isn’t there. Whether you’re sitting in a deer stand or a duck blind or against a bank of sand, it’s conceivable that a stump could seem to be a deer, a pigeon might look like a duck and a large piece of debris on the horizon could become a boat.
There’s a dark speck on the horizon now that brings this theory to mind. How long has it been there? Could it actually be them, after all this time?
Adrenaline again begins its bubbling drive through my bloodstream and I stand up to stare out at the dark speck. Then the waves and the wind start to change. Begin to sound like an orchestra. An orchestra playing something exhilarating and uplifting like a Sousa march or a hymn, maybe. Not a solemn, weepy song, but a strong and warlike hymn like “Onward Christian Soldiers” or “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
The object is closer now—and most definitely a sailboat. Possibly approaching my little home away from home. Clouds are rolling in and a damp breeze is kicking up from the North. As I stand here squinting out at the sailboat, the sun disappears and the blue and yellow sky slowly fills in with gray and black.
Now the boat seems to have stopped its shoreward progress.
I build up the sand around the signal flag, throw some wood on the fire and fetch the binoculars.
Not enough light to be sure, but indeed, the object looks to me like the Larson E. But something is off; she doesn’t look quite right going through the water. But then what do I know about sailing? What does a northern boy like me know about sailboats? Still, I swear it looks as though the sail is down and the bow is listing. I start to think about it and my paranoia alarm goes off like the dive signal on a submarine. I’m sure it’s the narco squad driving the boat, trying to clean up the loose ends of another failed smuggling attempt.
Or could it be that Schmidt and Bagley are drunk and trying to fuck with my head?
I squeeze the field glasses tighter and search for any signs of life. One of them should be on deck, scanning the shoreline. But the deck is empty. There’s nobody out there.
Some long lost instinct tells me something’s wrong and I drop the glasses in the sand and look nervously around for some kind of weapon. My eyes lock onto an axe handle’s length of wood lying in my pile of scraps. I pick it up and run the smooth, worn surface through my hands. It’s a little thicker than an axe handle and a little hard to grip, but it will have to do, should a situation arise. Primitive man using primitive tools.
The boat keeps moving slowly in my direction and the sky keeps fading to black. It’s raining now, big drops coming straight down. I let it pour down on me, pointing my face to the heavens. Then a tiny bow light on the boat breaks through the curtain of darkness, glowing both red and yellow, like the glass cover is broken. Then a beam, like a flashlight, sweeps the boat’s interior and goes dark.
I pick up the driftwood and walk back into the dunes, watching silently as the bow light moves ever so slowly toward shore. I hear the murmur of the diesel engine for a moment and then it’s gone, swallowed up by the rain. Then I hear something moving behind me in the brush. I hold up my club and yell, “Who’s there?”
Nobody, answers the rain.
(To be continued)
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