The Flying Stingaree Read online

  “Maybe we can,” Scotty replied. “Read on.”

  “ ‘Thename Choptank comes from the Choptank Indians who lived in the area until the middle of the nineteenth century. These Indians were first discovered by Captain John Smith when he sailed intoChesapeake Bay in search of a location for what later became the Jamestown Colony.’”

  “We’re sailing through history,” Scotty commented. “And we’d better step on it.” He pushed the throttles forward. The houseboat accelerated to its top speed of about twelve miles an hour.

  “What’s up?” Rick demanded.

  “Look to the southwest. That must be one of thoseChesapeake Bay squalls the book warns about.”

  There was a black line of clouds some distance away, but Rick could see that the squall line was moving fast, crossing the bay in their direction. He swung the chart table up and studied the situation. They were close to the south shore of theChoptankRiver now, and the chart showed no easily accessible place of shelter in the vicinity. They would have to run for the Little Choptank, the next river to the south. The chart showed several creeks off the Little Choptank. They could duck into the one nearest the river mouth.

  “Can we ride it out if we have to?” Rick asked.

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  Scotty grinned. “Well find out, if we have to. But I’d rather not be in open water when a squall hits this barge. It’s not built for storms. Keep your fingers crossed and hope we get to cover before it hits.”

  “I hear you talking. I’m going to do a little research.” Rick ducked into the cabin and took the tide tables from the bookshelf. Back on deck, he leafed through the official publication and found that the nearest point for tidal data was the Choptank River Light, only a few miles away and clearly visible. High and low tides at the light were about three hours and fifteen minutes earlier thanBaltimore , the data station for the area. Rick checkedBaltimore data for the date, subtracted quickly, and glanced at his watch.

  “High tide in about a half hour.The chart shows three feet near shore at mean low water. High tide will bring it up to four and a half at the very least. That’s plenty for this barge. Get inshore and cut corners.

  We won’t have to stick to the channel.”

  Scotty swung the wheel instantly, and the houseboat took a new course, leading them closer to shore.

  “Better keep an eye out for logs or pilings,” Scotty warned. “No rocks in the area, so we don’t have to worry about shoals.”

  The wooded shore slid by, the trees gradually giving way to low scrub and marsh grass as they neared the mouth of the Little Choptank. Rick alternately kept an eye out ahead and checked their position on the chart. They were in about five feet of water, more than enough for the shallow-draft houseboat. His principal worry was the outboard propellers. He didn’t want to break one on a log that might be sticking up underwater.

  The squall was closer now, and the sky was growing dark. Rick estimated that they had no more than ten minutes before the storm would hit. He had to look up at a sharp angle to see the storm front.

  Visibility was down to zero directly under it. Whitecaps and a roiling sea told him there was plenty of wind in the squall. He doubted that the houseboat could head into it successfully. The wind would catch the high cabin sides and force the houseboat onto the shore.

  Scotty swung around the northern tip of land that marked the mouth of the Little Choptank. “We won’t make it,” he said, glancing at the chart.

  Rick nodded. “But the wind will be behind us. We can drive right into the mouth of the nearest creek.

  According to the chart, there’s a cove just inside the mouth where we ought to be out of the wind.” He put his finger on the place, and suddenly a chill ran through him. The nearest safe harbor was Swamp Creek, where Link Harris had vanished!

  There wasn’t time to talk about it. He would have to be prepared to drop the anchor quickly. “I’m going up on the bow,” he said. “Once into the creek, turn as hard as you can into the wind,then cut the power.

  I’ll heave the anchor over and the wind pressure on the boat can set it. But keep the motors turning over in case it doesn’t hold.”

  “Got it,” Scotty agreed.

  Kick stepped out of the cockpit onto the catwalk. The cabin top was just chest-high, and he could hold on by grabbing the safety rails that ran along the sides of the large sun deck. He moved swiftly along the walk to the foredeck, a small semicircular deck used primarily for docking and anchoring. The anchor line was coiled on a hook on the curving front of the cabin, and the patent anchor was stowed on the deck itself. Rick took the coil and faked down the line in smooth figure eights so it would run out without fouling, then made sure the anchor was free and ready to go.

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  When Rick stood up and looked down the length of the cabin top at Scotty, he saw that the squall was almost on them. The turbulent cloud front was directly overhead. He saw the wind line, marked by turbulent water, move swiftly toward the houseboat. The Spindrift rocked as though shaken by a giant hand, and its speed picked up appreciably. The houseboat began to pitch as the chop built up around it.

  Visibility dropped suddenly; it was almost dark. Rick winced as large, hard-driven raindrops lashed into his face,then he turned his back to the storm and stared ahead.

  The creek mouth was in sight. He pointed to it for Scotty’s benefit, but when he turned to look at his pal, the driving rain slashed into his eyes and made him look away.

  Scotty had seen the creek mouth. Staying as close to shore as he dared, Scotty drove the houseboat to within fifty yards of the narrowmouth, then swung the helm hard. The wind, which had been astern, was now abeam and its force was acting on the high side of the boat. The houseboat slewed sideways, and for a moment Rick thought they would be driven on to the upstream bank of the creek. But Scotty had judged his distance and wind pressure well. The boat shot into the creek mouth with feet to spare.

  The cove opened up ahead. Scotty reversed one motor and the houseboat turned almost in its own length. Rick watched the shore through squinting eyes, and the moment he saw the boat’s forward motion cease, he dropped the big anchor over. The wind caught the houseboat again and drove it backward into the cove while the anchor line ran out. When he had enough line out for safety, Rick snubbed it tight around a cleat, held the taut line between thumb and forefinger until he was sure it had none of the vibrations caused by a dragging anchor, and then hurried back along the catwalk to the cockpit. He and Scotty ran from the rain swept deck down the two steps into the cabin.

  For a moment the two stood grinning at each other and listening to the heavy drumming of the rain on the cabin top, then Rick spoke. “We’d better get out of these wet clothes so we can sit down. This may last for an hour or so.”

  Scotty agreed. “First one into dry shorts makes the coffee.”

  “That’s me,” Rick said. He stripped off the soaking clothes, toweled quickly, and put on dry shorts. The rain had chilled the air, so he reached into the drawer under the amidships bunks, took out a sweat shirt, and pulled it over his head. It felt good.

  Scotty had taken time to dry off the books and binoculars he had brought from the deck before he changed his own clothes. By the time he was dressed in dry shorts and sweater, Rick had the alcohol stove going and water heating for coffee.

  “Know where we are?” Rick asked casually.

  “Sure. We’re-“ Scottystopped.“For Pete’s sake! I didn’t make the connection at first. We’re in Swamp Creek, where that man got snatched by a flying saucer!”

  “Right.Worried?”

  Scotty grinned. “Any flying saucer that can navigate in this weather is welcome to what it gets. How’s the anchor?”

  “Holding,” Rick said. “I hope.” He looked out the galley window and watched the shore. It changed position as the boat moved, but that was only because the houseboat was swinging at anchor. “Seems all Page 9

  right,” he added.

  Ten minutes later coffee was ready. The boys sat at the dinette table and sipped with relish, listening to the storm outside. It seemed to be increasing in intensity.

  “Picking up,” Scotty said. “The guidebook wasn’t kidding when it said ‘sudden and severe summer storms lash the bay.’”

  “Wonder how long they last?” Rick asked.

  “Hard to say. Perhaps an hour.”

  The houseboat jerked suddenly. Rick jumped to his feet. “Did you feel that?”

  The boat heeled under the lash of wind. Rick peeled off his sweat shirt.“Feels as though the anchor dragged a little. I’m going out and let out more scope. We can’t take a chance of drifting in this wind.”

  “I’ll go,” Scotty offered.

  “No. I put the anchor down. It’s my fault if it slips. Stand by.”

  Rick pulled the cabin door open and winced at the blast of raindrops, like heavy buckshot on his face and body. For a moment he hesitated,then realized the sooner he got it over with, the better. He hurried to the catwalk and swung down it, meanwhile estimating his distances. He could let out another fifty feet of anchor line without getting the boat too near shore. The more anchor line out, the better the anchor could hold.

  He made the forward deck and looked around, realizing that the wind direction had changed and that the blast was now coming down the creek, swinging the houseboat around. That probably was why the anchor had shifted. He knelt and took the line in his fingers. It no longer seemed to be slipping, but it was better not to take a chance. He unloosed the half hitches that held it to the cleat, threw off all but one figure-eight turn, and let the anchor line run out slowly. When he estimated about fifty feet had run through, he put on more figure eights around the cleat,then dropped half hitches over to secure the line.

 
Once more he reached out and held the taut line. It didn’t seem to be slipping. He pulled on it hard, and felt the boat move. The anchor was in solidly this time.

  Rick turned and started back to the catwalk, rain lashing his back. Sudden instinct made him whirl around in time to see something huge and black rushing at him out of the storm. Rain blurred his vision.

  He had a swift impression of a black figure, shaped like a diamond, coming at him. He threw himself flat on the foredeck. There was a rustling sound overhead, and something clanged off the cabin top’s aluminum rail. Rick was on his feet again. Heart pounding, he looked around. There was nothing but rain and wind. He stood upright and looked across the cabin top. For an instant he glimpsed a black object above the canopy over the rear cockpit, then that, too, was lost in the rain.

  Shaken, Rick made his way back to the cabin, entered, closed the door, and leaned against it. Scotty looked up, and was on his feet in an instant.

  “Rick! What happened? You’re white as a sheet!” he exclaimed.

  “Saw one,” Rick managed. He was still shaking. “It went right over the boat. I think it hit the upper rail.

  We’ll check later. But it wasn’t a flying saucer. I’m sure of that.”

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  “What was it?” Scotty demanded.

  “A flying stingaree!”

  CHAPTER III

  Orvil Harris, Crabber

  Rick Brant awoke to the sound of a motor. For a moment he lay quietly in his bunk, listening. The sun through the cabin windows told him it was early in the morning. The sunlight still had the red quality of early sunrise. He watched the light shift as the houseboat swung on its anchor.

  By the time the storm last night had ended, darkness had set in, and it was only sensible to turn on the anchor light and remain in the Swamp Creek cove for the night. In spite of his unsettling experience, Rick and Scotty had not been deeply disturbed. Neither he nor Scotty believed in flying saucers-at least, not in saucers that kidnaped people, and the object Rick had seen had not been saucer-like. It had been shaped like a stingaree.

  Stingarees don’t fly.

  Rick smiled to himself. During another vacation, skin diving in theVirgin Islands , he and Scotty had proved that octopuses don’t wail. But if stingarees don’t fly, he asked himself, what looks like a stingaree and does fly?

  He realized suddenly that the sound of the motor was louder once again.Someone investigating the houseboat? He swung out of bed. The cool air of morning was in sharp contrast to the warmth of his sleeping bag. Quickly he slipped into shorts and sweat shirt. As he opened the cabin door, he heard the slap of bare feet on the deck behind him and turned to see Scotty regain his balance after dropping from the upper bunk.

  “Go ahead,” Scotty called. “Be right with you.”

  “Okay.” Rick stepped out into the cockpit and glanced around. It was a lovely morning. The ever-present birds of theChesapeake area were already active. A huge blue heron stepped daintily in the shallows like a stilt walker afraid of falling over. The heron was looking for small fish or anything that moved and was edible. An osprey, the great fish hawk of the bay region, swooped overhead on lazy wings, sharp eyes alert for small fish near the water’s surface. In the pine woods behind the shore marsh, a bluejaycalled, its voice like a squeaky hinge.

  The motor sound was distant now, and the shore upstream blocked Rick’s view. Then, as he watched, a long, low, white motorboat came into sight. Its bow was vertical, its sides low. There was no cabin.

  Amidships was a single man, clad in overalls and a denim shirt. The man was surrounded by bushel baskets, and he held a long-handled crab net made of chicken wire.

  Rick watched with interest. On one side of the boat was a roller that extended out over the water. A Page 11

  heavy cord came out of the water, crossed the roller, and dipped back into the water again. Every few feet there was a chunk of something on the cord, apparently bait. As Rick watched, a piece of bait came up with a crab clinging to it. The net swooped and the crab was caught, pulled inboard, and dumped into a bushel basket with one fluid motion. The crabber never took his eyes from the cord. The boat continued in a straight line.

  Scotty came out on deck and joined Rick. The boys watched in silence while the man caught a dozen crabs, then picked one from the bait and flipped it into the water.

  “Too small, I guess,” Rick commented.

  “Must be. Where does the line go?”

  Rick pointed. A gallon oilcan, painted blue and white, bobbed gently in the creek. “That’s where he’s heading.”

  The crabber approached the can,then flipped the line off the roller. Using a lever next to him, he turned the boat and headed toward another can some distance away. A quick pull with a boat hook and the line attached to the can was placed over the roller. Crabs appeared, holding onto the bait as the boat moved along the new line. Rick counted. The crabber was getting about one crabfor every three baits .

  Scotty leaned over the cockpit rail. “There’s the end of his line, over near shore. He’ll pass close to us.”

  “That’s why the motor sounded loud,” Rick guessed. “He moves from one line to another. Last time he came by the boat he woke me up.”

  “Same here.”Scotty nodded.

  The crabber moved methodically, his boat proceeding at a steady pace toward the houseboat. As he came abreast, he called, “ Mornin’.”

  The boys returned the greeting.

  “Looks like a good catch,” Scotty called.

  “Fair.Only fair.” The crabber scooped up a huge blue crab from almost under their noses and went on his way.

  “If it’s only fair now, what must it be like when it’s good?” Rick asked with a grin.

  “Two crabs on every hunk of bait,” Scotty said. “You count crabs and I’ll make coffee.”

  “That’s my boy,” Rick said approvingly.

  Scotty went into the cabin and left Rick watching the crabber. Rick tried to figure out all the details.

  After a short time he concluded that the floats were attached to anchors of some kind. The anchors kept the crab line on the bottom, except when it was running over the roller. He also saw that there were no hooks or other gadgets. The crabs were caught simply because they refused to let go of the bait.

  The aroma of coffee drifted through the cabin door, and Rick wondered why it is that coffee, bacon, and other breakfast scents are so much more tantalizing on the water.

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  The crabber approached on the leg of his journey closest to the boat. On impulse, Rick called, “Come aboard and have some coffee?”

  The man grinned. Without missing his smooth swing at a rising crab, he called back, “Don’t mind. That coffee smell was drivin ’ me nigh crazy. Be back when I finish this line.”

  Rick leaned into the cabin.“Company for coffee, Scotty.”

  “Heard you.Got another cup all ready.In here or out there?”

  “Out here. It’s too nice to be inside.”

  In a few moments the motorboat, which turned out to be as long as the houseboat, came alongside. Rick took the line thrown by the crabber and made it fast so that the crab boat would drift astern. He looked into the boat with interest. Covers on four baskets showed that the crabber had collected four bushels of crabs. A fifth and sixth basket were half full, one with very large crabs, the other with smaller ones.

  The crabber swung aboard. He was of medium height, with light-blue eyes set in a tanned and weather-beaten face. Rick guessed his age to be somewhere in the mid-forties. He smiled, showing even teeth that were glaringly white in his tanned face.

  “Name’s Orvil Harris,” he announced.

  “Rick Brant.” Rick shook hands. “That’s Don Scott coming out with the coffee.”

  Scotty put down the coffeepot and mugs he was carrying and shook hands. “Call me Scotty, Mr. Harris.

  How do you like your coffee?”

  “Strong and often,” Harris replied.“Plain black. Call me Orvil.”

  Like all visitors, Harris was interested in the houseboat. “Been hopin ’ for a look inside,” he said in his slurredEastern Shore accent. “Almost gave up hope. You get up late, seems like.”