Assateague Rum Runners Read online

Assateague Rum Runners

  Nelson Lynch

  Copyright 2011

  ISBN 978-1-4660-6887-2

  Cover: Microsoft Clip Art

  He heard the schooner’s captain yelled for the crew to haul up the anchor and set a course toward the southeast before he had finished stowing the last case of scotch whiskey on top of the rum. His partner shifted the transmission into forward and gently increased gas to the engine. He was surprised at how rough and windy it was. In the thirty minutes it had taken to load the skiff, the wind speed had doubled and somehow the wave height had tripled. The Model-A engine labored and blew black smoke from the pump pipe that served as an exhaust as it slid down the backside of a wave. Keeping both hands tightly on the gunnel, he turned and looked for the schooner. A large wave hindered his view letting him see only the very top of the main mast. He jerked his head back to the bow looking for the beach. The wave in front made it impossible to even see the tops of the pine trees that were on the other side of the sand dunes. The rear wave passed under the skiff on its way to the beach. For the few seconds the skiff was on the wave’s crest. He had time to see the small group of people standing at edge of the sea. Then the skiff slid off of the crest on to the rear side of the wave.

  His partner turned around, pointed to the stern and gunned the engine. He turned slightly and glanced out of the corner of his eye. A huge wave was approaching, its top glistening with spray from the northeast wind. Time slowed down as the small skiff went from the bottom of the trough to the beginning of the wave. He noticed a small flock of Mother Carey’s Chickens skittering along the trough and one lone porpoise jumping out of the wave with no concern for the weather.

  In a few heartbeats, their speed went from near zero to twenty miles per hour as the wave carried them toward the shore. The smoke disappeared as the engine chugged along in relative ease. Panicking slightly, he picked up the old life preserver that was under his feet. It’s tatters fluttered in the wind and the last piece of cork fell overboard as he attempted to put it on. Disgusted and apprehensive he threw the dry-rotten vest over the side. The wind whistled and spray flew as the boat sped toward the beach. At the same it inched backward up the front side of the wave.

  Suddenly the engine revved up, the skiff began to vibrate and he saw the men on the beach. I took him a second to realize they were on the crest and the propeller was spinning in the air. He caught another glimpse of the men as the skiff slid off of the backside of the wave and entered another trough. Their speed decreased to near zero and the waves sheltered them from the wind. They had moved a lot closer to shore, maybe now only two hundred yards away.

  He glanced at the stern when he saw his partner giving him a sickly grin. His heart missed a beat looking at a monster wave approaching. His mind brought old fisherman’s tales of the huge “third wave” or the “Great Seven Sister’s Waves.” The wave picked the skiff up like a cork and flung them toward shore. The two men and their cargo of whiskey were being carried nose down at a fort-five degree angle at a frighting speed toward the waiting men. In a long second the wave began to break and the skiff was in the curl of the wave. White foam and salt water were everywhere. Water poured down the exhaust pipe and over the engine. The motor expelled a puff of white smoke and died. The roar of the crashing wave and the quietness of the dead engine echoed in his head. The frothing surf carried the half-sunk skiff farther toward the shore. They sat in the skiff with water up to their knees as the surf stopped and then retreated carrying them back out. Another wall of surf pushed them in again putting another two inches of water around the whiskey. His partner yelled something in the roaring surf and jumped overboard with a rope. He hesitated a moment, then grabbed a rope and jumped just as another wave went by the floundering skiff. The wave threw him to the bottom, twisted him about and ground his body against the abrasive sandy bottom. Cold ocean water filled his gum boots and soaked his clothing in a heartbeat. A thousand scenes, all in vivid colors flashed in his mind as he tightened his grip on the rope.

  The current swirled him around, looping the rope around his wrist tighter. He opened his eyes and saw the bottom. It was perfectly clear and clean with grains of sand being washed toward shore. He pushed hard against the sand, turned on his back and looked toward the surface. The skiff, his partner, the shore and the whisky sailed through his mind in that order in a blink of time. Tough boat. She’s still floating even if she does have two foot of water in her. Where in the hell is he? He’s probably only five feet away and I can’t see that far. The shore is this way. The same way these grains of sand are going. I need a shot of rum right now. A tight lipped smile formed for an instant while he was still under the water. They better have some ready when we get to the beach.

  Somehow his feet touched the bottom while he was in a crouched position. Reflex action propelled him toward the surface. He cleared the water to his waist. He exhaled and inhaled. Just like a damn whale. If I had jumped harder I would have made it clear to shore. He swiveled his head around in seemingly slow motion. Where in the hell is he? I see his rope. He must be at the bitter end. Inwardly he smiled at is joke. Damn, water is nearly up to the spark plugs. We can’t let water run down the exhaust pipe and ruin the engine. Why in the hell are they standing still? Are they blind? Damn fools, they’re going to let us drown. These thoughts flashed by even before he reached the apex of his jump. He yelled ‘help’ ten times in his mind while he managed to croak one feeble Help before sliding back beneath the surface.

  The current was still going in, but its velocity had been cut in half. As soon as his feet hit the bottom, he started walking with the current. He gained extra strength when he realized he was walking uphill. Hotdog, I’m on the sandbar. Ahead of him the skiff twisted and snatched on the rope. He lost his balance and was drug inward along the sandy bottom for ten yards. He felt the wave slow and nearly stop as he got his feet in position. He sprung to the surface. Exhilaration and relief flooded through his body when he realized the water was only hip-deep. He felt a pang of warmth in the frigid water. His partner was wading furiously toward shore with his rope wrapped around his wrist. Wait for me, dammit! I don’t want to get swept back out by the undertow. He began running and jumping toward shore, waving his free hand at the ten or more men standing at the edge of the water. The current stopped and began to recede, increasing in speed every second. He braced himself as the current carried the skiff back toward the breakers.

  The skiff drifted by him toward the storming ocean as the water receded. He debated whether to untangle the rope from his wrist as the boat jerked him from his feet and drug him back into deeper water. No, hang on to the rope. The skiff will eventually wash up on the beach here. I’d drown and wash up ten miles from here. Another giant wave had crested and broke sending a six foot high wall of frothing toward the beach. Luckily the two men were acting as sea anchors and keeping the skiff’s bow pointed toward shore. If the skiff ever got side-to the wave it would capsize.

  The surf swept by, covering him completely with half water half foam. A second later the skiff snatched him toward shore. He opened his eyes, looking for the bottom. The pounding wave pushed him deeper, his chin scraped a narrow trench in the sand for a few yards. His lungs were burning and his eyes seem to be bulging. The current slowed and he realized he was back on the sandbar. His feet hit the bottom and he jumped with all his strength.

  He looked around while still in the air. His partner was trying to walk behind the skiff. The men on the beach were still in the same position. None had made any attempt to wade out to him and his partner. He yelled and waved with his free arm. He fell back, got to his feet and began walking and jumping toward shore.

  He walked past the skiff, his gumboot
s spilling out water. I’m closer than the last time, the water is shallower. He looked to his left and saw his partner only five feet away struggling toward shore. He tried to yell, but the wind smothered any sound his chattering teeth and burning lungs could produce. The water reached the men on the beach and began running back out. He started walking downhill and realized he was in the trough between the sandbar and shore. The skiff drifted back with the current and stopped between the two men. With water up to his neck he realized the skiff had lodged on the sandbar. He grabbed the side and pulled his head up level with the gunnel. In a flash he saw his partner on the other side trying to smile, six inches of the exhaust pipe above water and