The Maiden of Race Rock

The Maiden Of Race Rock

Gulls work the schools of baitfish sparkling the surface of Long Island Sound. Fishermen cast their weighted lines into the rip-rap demarcating the spot where the Sound disappears into the Atlantic Ocean. October is the best month for bluefish. They like the cooler water, the rougher seas and the baitfish swarming the surface as they make their way south.

Small boats with powerful motors cut the power to drift past the rocks at the base of Race Rock Lighthouse, perched on its own tiny island. Then, they rev up their engines to speed back to the place where they again start their drift past the rocks. Bass work near the surface in the seaweed fringing the rocks and the blues work the deeper waters where the lighthouse base falls off to the depths of the sea. The fishermen are prepared for both eventualities as well as the occasional tuna that might be passing by. Anything might grab a hook and the competition between the boats for the exact place to drift is fierce.

The young man in the twenty-five foot inboard-outboard cuts his engines, power-lifts the propellers to glide with the rip alongside the lighthouse. The current lets him cast towards the rocks without worrying about getting his engines hung up on the lobster trap markers. The bobbing colored floats indicate the heavy traps, or cages, hanging below, silently waiting for lobsters to slide into the one-way entrance searching for the dead fish baiting them.

There are quite a few boats fishing today. An older wooden boat cruises by with two kids trolling off the stern. The man at the helm has a pipe hanging out of his mouth and gives a desultory wave at the other passing boats.

The air is clear and cool, filled with the scent of sea, seaweed and bait. It almost stings the nose with its clarity. Gulls squawk and dive towards the boats, on the lookout for any morsel of fish or bait they can snag as they cruise by. The fall time hasn’t changed so even at three in the afternoon the sun hangs bright in the sky.

The young man casts again towards the rocks. The line makes a singing sound as it plays through the eyes of the casting rod and plops into the water. The big lure drops with its trademark spinning shine into the depths. It's a heavy silver colored spoon with a piece of pork rind dangling from the large three pronged hook. At the very least, a big blue would find it delectable.

The line jerks the tip of the pole sharply down as something grabs the hook. In one fluid motion he whips the pole tip upward and tightens the drag on the reel. He pulls the tip high and back towards his head, then lowers it in time to his relentless reeling the line in. He repeats the motion to lever his catch in toward the boat. There's no fight. It's a dead weight. His first thought is the lure caught on the rocks, maybe a lobster pot? Then, it seems to move and he envisions a large doormat fluke, not too common in these waters, but possible.

He's afraid the line on the pole might break. He could lose everything. It was fifteen pound test, not enough to bring in a very large fish, but it's new and might hold up if he's careful and whatever's on the other end doesn’t fight too much. He gives a silent prayer the line won’t break, it's his last big spoon lure. Newer, fancier lures replaced the old standards and they're hard to find these days.

He looks at the spool of line on the reel. It seems as if he already reeled in most of the line. His catch should be showing itself soon. He looks out over the stern of the boat in anticipation but nothing brakes the water and he still can't see the telltale flash of silver that presages a bluefish or a bass. Not a surprise if it's a fluke with its wide, flat, dark brown speckled back.

The line points downward rather than at a sloping angle, indicating it's almost directly below the stern of the boat. He reels some more line in and sees beneath the swimming ladder off the stern a dark square shadow. Crap! A metal lobster trap.

Damn, he thinks, if a lobsterman sees me with his pot I’ll catch holy hell! The weather’s been nasty for the last week and the catch has been lousy…probably empty. But he wants his lure and he sees it hooked onto the steel rods that make up the frame of the trap.

Still angry about not having a good fish on the other end of the line, he steps over the transom of the boat onto the ladder and, hanging on with one hand, reaches into the water to grab the closest edge of the heavy wire cage. He won’t take anything out, that is, nothing but his spoon and untangle his line. If the lobsterman has anything in the trap other than bait, his catch is safe. All he wants is his own property.

As he brings the wire cage up and into sight, he leans over to see what the large beige-gray colored thing is rolling around as the water washes in and out of the trap with the rocking motion of the boat. He lifts one side up and onto the transom and reaches toward his line to follow where it was caught, recoiling as he realizes a human skull is in the bottom of the cage and his line and lure are stuck on a bar of the cage. I don’t want to get anywhere near that cursed thing keeps running through his mind. But he's determined to untangle his line. The loose end of the tie on his sweatshirt hood dangles unnoticed toward the cage door latch as he reaches to fumble with his line and lure. The boat lurches in the wake of another fishing boat at the end of their drift as they start up their motors to speed to the other side of the lighthouse.

The cage holds on the boat for the first wave of the wake, but the second wave dislodges it and it crashes back into the sea. The line the man was trying to free tangles around his wrist at the same time the tie on his hoodie hangs up in the latch of the lobster trap. It's too late to catch himself as the weight of the trap pulls at both his wrist and neck, dragging him into the water and down. The empty boat swiftly moves away, caught in the riptide to drift to the other side of the lighthouse.

My God, what’s happened? He thinks as he looks toward the skull in the cage that trapped him.

Mesmerized, he can’t take his eyes off the skull as it moves with the tide, rolling from side to side in the cage with the motion. The skull seems to gain substance, skin fusing onto the raw bone, hair floating in the current. Even through the haze of water he sees it's long and blond. The body of a woman forms and attaches itself to the skull. As they go down together into the depths beneath Race Rock, he sees it's a young and beautiful woman, hardly past girlhood.

The woman smiles and reaches out her arms to the man. She's lovely, and, tethered as he is, he floats towards her beckoning hand. His last conscious thought is If I grab her hand, everything will be all right. He's sure he's touching her as the cold salt water fills his lungs.

A few days later, his boat washed up on the rocks just north of Providence. Several kids fishing off a breakwater found it and scavenged anything worth taking before they called the Police, who in turn called the Coast Guard.

After a bit of inquiry, another fisherman said he recognized the boat. “Ay-ah, think I seen it a few days ago. Fishing in the rip ‘round Race Rock it was. Lost sight of it myself when I rounded ‘ta ‘tother side of the Lighthouse. Thought he might have somethin’ on the line when I went past. Ay-ah, his pole was bent like a big ‘un.” He unconsciously put his pipe bowl on the side of his nose and rubbed it in the oil that collected there.

“Ay-ah, could have been the missus 'a the Rock, ‘a course.” He gave a nod and an embarrassed grin as he shambled out of the Police Station. He'd done his good deed as a citizen after he saw the photo of the wrecked boat in the local paper with the caption “Local Fisherman Missing, Police Seek Information.”

The Chief of Police watched the old fisherman leave the station house and shook his head. That old guy is certainly losing it, he thought. The “missus of the Rock,” what was he thinking? The Chief had no truck with old wives tales, or old fishermen’s either, for that matter.

But the locals understood. The Police Chief was new in town and had no clue. He retired from the big city to a small town. Too much pressure before, he thought, this was going to be better, less stress, less crime. Much better. He gave no credence to the local legends, the local ghosts. And no one was going to tell him otherwise.

The old fisherman, Thomas was his name, left the Police Station to go home to his own family that cold evening. Sure, it was the 4th of November, and the boat disappeared on the 31st of October. Every one of the old timers snuggled into their beds and gave thanks they didn’t forget what day it was. He was the only one who still went out on that day, even though it was a full moon. To him, it was a tribute and a challenge. And here he was, home safe and sound.

Thomas got home from the Police Station at dusk. His wife had prepared an oyster stew for dinner. It was rich with heavy cream, onions, bacon and plump oysters floating alongside the pat of butter decorated with chopped parsley she always put on top. He inhaled the savory steam and watched as his grandson took his place at the table.

The boy was nineteen now, tall for his age and good at both sports and lessons. Thomas was proud of his only son’s boy. He and his wife had been taking care of the boy since his father died in that terrible accident, just after the boy was born.

The boy’s mother had followed soon after her husband's untimely death. The two had been sweethearts since grammar school and she couldn’t envision a life without him. At least, that’s what the note said as they read the scrawl pinned to her dress when they cut her down from the attic rafters.

The boy accepted his parent’s deaths as he had been only an infant and had no memory of either of them. As far as he knew, his grandparents were his only family. He was calm and mannerly, respectful of his family and popular in school.

Thomas nodded to his wife. “There was another one at the lighthouse this week.”

She put down the spoon she was holding and brought her hands to her mouth. “Don’t tell me! She’s at it again?” He could see her chin begin to wobble and her mouth tremble. He hated to do this to her, but it was time the boy knew.

“Ay-ah. Seems a boat was found adrift up Providence way, caught on the breakwater it was. No one in it…nice boat too, twin inboard-outboards.” He stirred the melting butter into his stew and picked up the peppermill to grind a healthy helping of black specks on top.

“Oh my Saints! Why doesn’t she give it a rest? How many does she need to satisfy herself?”

“What are you talking about, Gram? Has something happened?” The boy’s interest was sparked. Usually, while he loved his grandparents, their conversation was not of much interest to him.

The fisherman spooned up a few mouthfuls of stew and chewed on the oysters. He took a handful of the traditional six sided oyster crackers and crumbled them in the rich broth to soak up the flavors.

“Boy, haven’t you heard about the accident at Race Rock?”

“No Gramps, when did it happen?”

“On about mid 1870’s, best as I can remember the story.”

“Oh, it’s one of the old time stories.” The boys eyes sparkled with interest. These were usually the best kind.

“Ay-ah. Seems the lighthouse was just built. Had a smaller one there before, but it washed away in the storm of 1862 and took a while to build a new one. Had to haul the materials out by boat and build up the rocks around it. Had to be high enough so the waves couldn’t knock it down again.“

“Yeah, it must have been a hard job. The teacher in school says that lighthouse sits in the middle of one of the deepest parts with the strongest currents in the area.”

“Well, seems a man was hired to live in the lighthouse and make sure the lights were kept on so no boats would crash on the rocks. Lonely job for a man, but all right if someone is good with their own company.” Thomas held out his bowl towards his wife. She nodded as she filled it once again with more of the steaming stew.

“To keep him warm during the cold winter nights, the lighthouse keeper ordered himself a wife. A young woman she was, come all the way from Dublin.” He took more crackers to crumble in the stew and more ground pepper. It gave him time to collect his thoughts. “Well, it seems she was almost still a child, just a young’un not even as old as you are today, seventeen or maybe a bit more. And, a looker she was, long corn-silk hair and a tidy fi’gger to boot.

“She didn’t much cotton to life in the lighthouse. Nothin’ to entertain a young girl, lonely, cold and isolated, felt she was abandoned to a living hell. The lighthouse keeper, he was twenty years older, at least, and not the nicest of men, so the story goes.” He pushed away his empty bowl and patted his stomach with a big smile to let his wife know how much he enjoyed the stew. Pausing from his story, he found his pipe and tamped down the tobacco for his after-dinner smoke.

“After a year or so, this young gal is about besides herself with loneliness and boredom. To entertain herself, she starts waving at all the boats what come by to fish the rocks, or sea captains on their way with cargo. One o’ the young captains takes a shine to her, and she to him. They fi’gger a way to send messages back and forth, he casts notes to her from the deck of his square rigger and she catches them and sends his line back with another attached.” His wife looks at him with tears about to flood her eyes. This part of the story always does it to her. He nods and she goes to another room, leaving the dishes unwashed in the sink. He’ll do them for her later.

“These two, they fall in love and decide to run away. Imagine how strange a romance t’ was, they never touch, kiss or even hear the other’s voice, but they have a wild passion to be together.” He shakes his head as he relights the cold pipe. Leaning back in his chair, he inhales the fragrant smoke with a satisfied smile.

“They have a plan to leave on next the full moon. He’ll have light enough to take a dingy close to the rocks and pick her up. It’s October 31 and they’re dying to finally be together.

“Her husband goes to bed early, as his usual. Waiting until she hears him snore, she leaves the bed and, takin’ the lantern with her, she goes to stand on the rocks and wait for her lover. He comes by as promised, and rows close to the rocks while his first mate keeps the square rigger just hailing distance away.”

The phone rings in the silent house, both grandson and grandfather jump. “Wait Gramps, remember that thought, I have to answer the phone. It might be Sandy asking for the math assignment.” Thomas holds the pipe and seems to be looking inside himself until the boy returns.

“Okay, I’m back. Remember, you were just at the place where they were finally going to be together.”

“So, the captain pulls up to the rocks and reaches out his hand to her. The wind is blowing something fierce and her yellow hair is whipping around her face as they are about to touch for the first time. But just as their fingers meet, the lighthouse keeper comes out of the dark with a big gaff hook and puts it through the captain’s neck, flinging him in the water.

“Well, the girl, his wife, she can’t believe her eyes, and jumps into the race to grab her dashing captain. Now remember, boy, in those days ladies wore full skirts and slips and pantaloons and weren’t too much for swimming, but she manages to find her lovers hand as she sinks in the water.

“Story goes that the next morning, the gal’s washed up on the rocks, dead o’ course, but no hide nor hair o’ the captain or his boat. Might be one o’ the big sharks come by for the blood and ‘et him. Anyways, the keeper, he takes her body, cuts her up in little pieces and puts her in the lobster cages to use for bait. Lobsters love dead things, y’know.”

“Wow, Gramps, I never heard that one before. It’s a cool story.”

“That ain’t the end of the story yet. The legend is that every October 31, when there’s a full moon, she comes back and tries to find her captain. If there’s some unlucky fisherman she takes a shine to, she tries to take him with her as her lover to the bottom of the sea. You know, Davy Jones Locker?”

The boy was silent for a moment. He was thinking hard and his face took on a dark look. “Wait a minute Gramps, didn’t dad die on October 31st near Race Rock?”

“Yes, he did son, and it was a full moon then too, just like it was a few days ago when another man went missing in the same place.”