2025/02/07 - The ChumMaster

This is the first story on which Sunnie and I ever collaborated. One of my patients was the template for Annie. She couldn't figure out why she had a penchant for self-sabotage. And the fishing fleet angle came from personal experiences Sunnie had with some fishermen off the coast of Sardinia while on summer break during her college years

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Matt Nolan will tell you. Sometimes it's good to have friends in low places. Matt isn't the type of fellow who would ordinarily cross paths with the sort of guys that would later come to his aid. Seafaring thugs with hearts of gold.

Matthew Nolan was 34 years old and was the owner of a small electronics manufacturing firm. He lived in the sleepy fishing village of Yarrowport. It was one of the last of the old fishing communities on Cape Cod that was largely untouched by the ravages of tourism. One could smell the salt in the air. There was a thriving community of small-time subsistence fishermen, who fed their families with the day's catch, and sold the overcatch to restaurants in nearby towns, generating the funds that kept their boats afloat. The newer docks in the small harbour were an expansion that satisfied the needs of the yacht club members and other weekend sailors. The older, adjacent, original docks were a trip back in time.

Aside from the expected upkeep, little had changed on the Old Wharf since colonial times. The most prominent feature was the Wharf Tavern, which dated to 1748. As quaint as the name sounded, it was little more than a large shack that actually sat out over the water near the dock's end. Hand-hewn vertical boards which fit together poorly, made up the walls. There was only a single layer, so the same board was both the exterior siding and the interior wall. When you sat inside, you could see daylight between those boards. In summer, the breeze passing through was a blessing, and the leaky roof made for some much-welcomed shade. But the tavern's main purpose from the very first had been to just provide some small measure of protection from most of the ocean's winter wind.

Legend has it that the poor local fishermen and the bands of visiting pirates who coexisted within the tavern walls made attempts to heat the interior by burning as many whale oil lamps as could safely be hung. By the 1820's, a small cast-iron wood-burning stove was brought in, and had been the sole source of heat ever since.

Adjacent to the marina was the Yarrow Haven Yacht Club. While Matt was a member, he rarely availed himself of the club's amenities. When he did bring his boat into marina docking, and his friends wanted to go for a drink at the yacht club, Matt would politely decline, and walk over to the old docks. When he wanted to wet his whistle, Matt preferred to enjoy the simple and ancient pleasures of the Wharf Tavern. As out-of-place as he looked, Matt was welcomed there by the Old Salts. He was just the unassuming type of guy who could fit comfortably in the most unpretentious environment. It had always been that way.

In school he was smart, friendly and easygoing. In the business world he was all that and more. He owned a couple of electrical patents which basically set him up for life. He socked that money away into a retirement fund. His day-to-day operating capital came through his job. It paid the mortgage for two homes, and his golf club membership. It also paid for his small yacht and the marina fees.

Also adding to the war chest was his wife Annie. She was an arts and entertainment writer for the local newspaper, The Sandford Gazette. At the age of 32 she had recently gone back to work at the Gazette after taking 8 years off to have two kids and get the youngest one started in pre-K. Molly was 8 and Colin was 5. Annie was really something to see. She had long, wavy dirty-blonde hair and piercing green eyes. At 5' 1" she was an adorable little package, even after the birth of two children. While Matt was always a subtle presence, blending in with his easy grin, Annie was the one you'd notice. She lit up every room and was the life of every party. If there was anything to spell trouble, it was the contrast between Matt's contentment with the fruits of his labours, and Annie's restless search for new adventures.

Over the years, Matt had got to know Annie's boss, Frank Evangeliste, and they became friends on the golf course. When it came to hobbies, golf was Matt's second love, boating being his first. Matt Nolan made friends easily at the Wharf Tavern. It was an odd fit. Matt had "Ivy League Yacht Boy" tattooed all over him, yet he bonded easily with dockhands, local fishermen and the more rough-and-tumble crewmen from the wandering fleets of large commercial fishing vessels. This last lot were the stuff of seafaring tales, centuries old. Everything you'd expect: a salty old captain, and a multitude of itinerant deckhands, some fleeing the law or a failed romance or a bad marriage. In another time and another place, a young man at loose ends might run away and join the circus. Others joined the Foreign Legion. Along the Atlantic seaboard, men went to sea. Many of these would live their lives at sea and grow old there, never to return to the land of their birth. It had been that way since New England was settled in 1620.

The largest of the modern commercial fishing vessels were too big to get in and out of Yarrow Harbour. They would be left anchored off shore, attended by a rotating skeleton crew, while those crewmen scheduled for shore leave would ferry themselves to the wharf in a dinghy. There were two inns in Yarrowport. One was a charming bed and breakfast in the village. It was every bit as costly as it sounds. The other was an old white clapboard boarding house, the kind that time forgot. It needed a coat of paint, but it was on the waterfront across from the Old Wharf, and the price was right. A man who was in from being at sea for weeks and weeks could have a warm shower, sleep in a real bed, and avail himself of one of the dockside damsels who plied her craft outside the Wharf Tavern.

Matt had no interest in any of that. He had Annie at home. Most of the time, at any rate.

No, he just liked the atmosphere and the characters at the Tavern.

In recent years, he'd come to enjoy the company of Captain Gordon Bell. Everyone just called him "Cappy". This early evening in June, Captain Bell was enjoying grog with certain members of his crew whose turn it was for shore leave. Cappy had two large commercial vessels anchored outside the harbour, The "Brisbane" and The "Swallowtail." Cappy and his crew lived the nomadic life of hunter-gatherers. His boats would wander the sea, following the good fishing as it changed with season.

That evening, in the waters just outside the harbour, Matt was keeping his eye on the clock and, at 8pm, it was time to bring his boat, The "Electra" back into port. At that time of year, it would be dark within the hour. He'd gone out after work and had been out on the water, just... unwinding. Breathing in the sea air. He didn't do a lot of fishing. His love of the water was more therapeutic and cathartic. His version of meditation or yoga. It was a simple matter for Matt to access this simple pleasure. The Nolans lived in Masthead Lane, a three-minute walk from the marina, and a 5-minute drive from work.

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Annie would not be home till late tonight, or maybe even tomorrow morning. Her boss Frank had sent her to cover a play at a local theatre in Plymouth. Actually, Annie had requested the assignment.

It was close to a 90-minute drive home, and the play was scheduled to end around 10. So Annie had let Matt know that she might spend the night in Plymouth if she felt too tired for a late drive home. Matt remembered the conversation he'd had with her before work that morning. He had wanted to go with her, just so they could spend some time together, but Annie had discouraged him. "Ooh, Mattie, you know I'd love to have you along, but this is work. If I get distracted, I can't really report on the play."

"Annie, what could possibly distract you?"

"Why, sitting with my handsome hubby, that's what!" It's true that Annie was easily distracted, and she'd seemed especially distracted lately.

"OK. Just let me know if you're driving home tonight or staying over."

"Will do. Have a good day at work."

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So Matt put in a full day at Nolan Electronics, grabbed a light snack, was out on the water by 6, and back into port by 8. Annie's play in Plymouth should just be getting under way. He secured his boat to the marina dock, then made his way over to the Wharf Tavern. The door was propped open and the hinged shutter that passed for a window allowed the evening's June breeze coming off the water to blow through. Cappy was there with 10 of his guys on a bench with a rickety table.

"Ahoy Nolan!" they greeted him. He went to the small triangular bar that occupied the corner of the shack and had Mick Adams pour him a beer. He made his way to the cast-iron stove which always had a hot pot of seafood chowder, the only food offered there. He helped himself to a bowl and went to sit down with Cappy's crew. Skip moved over and made room for him.

"Yo Skip! How are they biting?!"

"Aagghh Nolan, not so good... I didn't catch anything today, but I got a date for tonight with Big Tit Terri over at the rooming house. Maybe I'll catch something there!"

The crew roared with a gale of laughter. "Wear galoshes, Skip!" "Thar she blows!"

These guys were in a state of arrested development and Matt found it amusing. Many of them had been at sea since high school, and they'd been exposed to little else but each other in all the years since. 40-year old sailors who still talked like locker-room freshmen. If you met them on the wharf, you'd take one look and expect them to talk like pirates from a movie. But no, it was "hey dude" and "whoa dude." Like an episode of Wayne's World.

The only guys you didn't call dude were Cappy and Skip. Those names were virtually their unofficial ranks. Captain and Skipper. Skip was Jack Kennedy, no relation, and had been with Cappy for years. These guys were a study in contrasts. They looked like they'd slit your throat and steal your treasure chest. But Cappy had a degree from the University of Connecticut in marine biology. His college summer job on a fishing boat had touched something in him and immediately upon graduation, with the additional motivation of a failed romance, he became a full time fisherman.

His father, an immigrant from Nova Scotia, who had paid young Gordon Bell's tuition was not amused. But Gordon saved every penny he earned and within 3 years had his own boat. He was 26 years old at the time.

Jack Kennedy was among the first half-dozen hands he hired. Jack had been a 19-year-old ne'er-do-well. In and out of juvie. Hadn't been in a regular school since age 14. He'd been at a crisis point. Trouble with the law for petty shit. Trouble with a pregnant 16-year-old girl's father. Poor rôle models at home. He saw the fishing vessel as a place where he could disappear from his old world and reinvent himself in a new one. Gordon laid down the law to Jack and his newbies. When you are at sea, there is no democracy. The captain was absolute dictator. He was to be addressed as Captain. Naval disciple would prevail and the response to all orders given would be "aye aye, Captain."

Deck hands came and went. Jack stayed. One evening ashore some years back, during a night of revelry, the captain called him Jackie. Jack called him Cappy. The table went still. After a stony silence, a broad grin splayed out across Captain Bell's whiskers. Cappy it was.

After five years, Cappy bought a second boat for his fleet. There was never a doubt in his mind. Jack Kennedy would be put in charge of the second boat. But what title should be get? Cappy was the boss, so having two captains would murky the waters. Lieutenant? Ensign? Then he chuckled and remembered a TV show from his father's day, that he'd only seen in reruns. The boat captain on "Gilligan's Island" was called Skipper. That would be Kennedy's rank. And it wasn't long before everyone called him Skip.

"So, Skip, did you try the chowder? Not sure what they put in it tonight, but they definitely hit the jackpot."

"Sure did, Nolan. It's definitely lobster, clam, and scallop tonight. Hey man. What's up with you anyway. You look all jumpy and you keep grabbing your phone."

"Oh. No... no, no problem, Skip. Just waiting for a text from my wife." That caught Cappy's attention.

"So, Nolan, what's up with that wife of yours." Cappy had met Annie a number of times over the handful of years he'd known Matt. Cappy had the instincts of a wild animal. He could smell an approaching rain on a clear and sunny day. He could feel a school of fish before he could see them. And he could see that you had changes in your life just by looking you in the eye. He'd been having unsettling thoughts about Annie Nolan that he was hesitant to bring to Matt's attention.

"Nothing really, Cap. She's kind of getting lost in her work and it feels like she's a guest in our own home half the time."

"Yeah, I've noticed some things..."

"Things? What kind of things, Cappy?"

"I remember when I first met your wife... she came off the boat with you and your kids, maybe just you and her, but she looked like she was with you, I mean really with you. Looked at you, engaged in the conversation. Now, the rare times I see her at all lately, she isn't really there."

"Not there?"

"You know what I mean, Nolan. Her mind is occupied. Acts like she wishes she was someplace else."

"OK, Cappy... I was hoping I was imagining things..."

"You're looking at your phone like a high school kid... ooh I hope she calls. C'mon man, get your head out of your ass. Where is she right now?"

"Went to Plymouth to watch a play so she can write a review for the Gazette. She might stay there overnight if she's too tired to drive when it lets out at 10."

"So why are you here?"

"Cap, she asked me not to go."

"You pussy. Get on your horse and chase her down, Nolan. Where's the kids, with your folks?"

"Yep, gotta pick 'em up, in fact."

"Screw that. Call your folks. Keep the kids for the night. Matt, go surprise her. For better or worse, you gotta find out. If you find her with someone, then it's a bad surprise. If she's alone, then fuck her brains out in the motel. Nice surprise for both of ya. Leave now, you'll get there around 10."

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It was now 10.15 and Matt was about 5 minutes outside of Plymouth. He pulled over and sent a text. "Hey babe, how was the show?" There was no reply until 10.25.

"Play was OK. Read the review in the Gazette for details LOL."

"When you coming home?"

"Tired. Staying overnight. Heading home tomorrow."

"Where you staying."

"Motel."

"Which one."

"IDK. Some motel."

"Why all the mystery. Which motel?"

"Mayflower-something I think."

"I know that one, Mayflower Beach, right on the water. What's your room number in case I need to call?"

"Matt if you need to call use my cell."

"I'll sleep better if the kids and I can reach your room direct. If cel reception goes down."

"OK. 103. Now let me go. I'm tired. Love you. Goodnight ❤️💋."

"Surprise! I'm in Plymouth too. We can sleep together. I'll be there in 10 min." He got there in 5. Annie's last text had been "What do you mean you're in Plymouth. Matt this better not be some game."

Matt couldn't drive fast and text so he didn't reply. As he pulled into the Mayflower driveway, he drove right by the motel office window. And there, plain as day, was Annie standing at the front desk, talking to the clerk. Matt parked and he waited.

A few minutes later she came running frantically out of the office rolling one bag and carrying another. As if she had to get somewhere fast. "Hey Annie! Where ya goin'?"

She turned toward the voice and froze. She plastered her back and the palms of her hands against the outer wall of the building, as if it were the only thing that could hold her upright.

"M-M-Matt, you got here fast... what a nice surprise... um..."

"Heading over to your room?"

"Yes...yes... my room."

"Number 103, right?"

"Um... no baby, I had to get a new room at the last minute... er, the other one smelt funny, musty, kinda."

"Well hop in. Toss your bags in. What's your new room number? We'll park there and unload."

Annie looked at her key card. "126."

He drove them to the front of 126. She was very quiet. The bags were brought in and they looked the room over.

"Smells OK, right Annie? No mildew or anything?"

"No, no. Room's fine." A woman of few words, and little enthusiasm. This did not go unnoticed. "I'm feeling a bit off, baby. Headache coming on." She pulled her purse apart looking for her Tylenol. Phone, house keys, car fob, tissues. No condoms, Matt noticed, so that was a good sign. On second thought, it was only a good sign if she'd never in a million years fuck a boyfriend bareback. She stepped into the bathroom to get a cup of water.

"Hey Annie, I guess you left your car down at 103. I didn't see it in front of the office. I'm going to walk down to 103 and bring it over here, be right back."

She felt terror, but she couldn't say No without sending up signals. "Um... OK, Matt."

He grabbed her fob. And he "accidentally" grabbed her phone, too. On the way to 103, he stopped by the office. "Hey, I'm in a hurry, so I'll make this quick."

"Sure," said the clerk, "how can I help you?"

He looked sixty-ish, and looked like he'd led a rough life. He had "alcohol" written all over him. Matt checked the name badge.

"George, I need some info about two guests in two rooms."

"Well, you know, uh, regulations and all that crap..."

Matt pulled out a 50. Slapped it on the counter. "Did I mention I'm in a hurry? Room 103. Who's registered there?!"

Tippity tappity click click. "Timothy F. McCormick, from Sandford, Mass."

"See? An easy 50 bucks, George. Now, for another 50, tell me about the woman in 126." A second portrait of Ulysses Grant landed on the counter.

Tip clicky tip clickity clack clack. "OK that's Anne Collins Nolan from Yarrow, Mass."

"You're doing just fine George." $50 more appeared. "Last questions: when was the first time you ever saw Anne Nolan and what was the conversation when she walked into your office tonight?"

"First time I saw her was when she walked in tonight, asked me if we had any vacancies and then she pointed to the end of the building with the higher numbers and asked if she could get something at that end."

"That was it? Did she mention that any of your rooms were musty-smelling?"

"Musty-smelling? No nothing like that. I don't know if she's ever been in here before and had previous bad experiences with some of our rooms, but no, no mention of it."

"Thanks, George, you've been a great help. And neither of us will mention to anybody that we had this little chat."

Matt could hear as he walked out the door, "Hey, I was kinda enjoying this. Sure you don't have more questions?"

Matt walked toward 103. There, parked outside the door was Annie's Volvo SUV. Next to it was a late model Jeep convertible. Making sure it was his phone and not Annie's, he took a quick photo of the Jeep's license plate and, using its flashlight feature, took a stealthy look inside. On the front passenger seat of this strange Jeep was a playbill, you know, one of those things the usher hands you in the lobby. It was for a play that evening in Plymouth.

Matt hopped into Annie's SUV and drove it over to 126. Walking back inside, he tossed the Volvo's key fob into her purse. He kept her phone in his pocket. She looked at him frantically, from head to toe, as if she was hoping her phone was somehow glued to his forehead. "Poor thing," Matt thought as he noticed her searching glances, "she was probably desperate to text someone." He tried to picture how frantic she must have been looking for her phone while he was out. But now, there was another pressing matter. Matt had to take a leak.