Pirates of Lobster Cove Chapter 1 - Ahoy!

Here's the first chapter of The Pirates of Lobster Cove. Since it will be offered online in October when the entire book will be available as an E-Book, I figured to post it for the devote now. We'll let you know when you can upload your copy for $2.99. We need to sell LOTS of copies to catch the interest of the agents and legitimate publishers. Enjoy!
 It was during the summer of my fourteenth year when I first rubbed elbows with legend. There he was in all of his pirate glory, stopping before my cottage porch. The man clutched the guardrail to remove his sandblasted leather boot and emptied whatever sand or pebble that was irritating his good leg. He slipped the boot back on and tucked his pant leg inside its lavish cuff. The boot’s ample leather slouched down his calf in a jaunty, well, piratey way. As he stood up and pulled out a red handkerchief to wipe the early morning humidity from his brow, our eyes met for a moment. The stranger at my front stoop stared at me through the screen.

‘Billybones,’ I thought.  I didn’t dare utter the nickname that came to me as I stood there transfixed by every childhood fear I ever had of pirates. I just mouthed the name as he loomed before me.

BillyBones was a sight to see. His lanky form stood a crooked six foot four. He was thin but in no way frail. His bare forearms revealed a taut musculature, rippled like suspension bridge wire wrapped with tan skin, a coat of faded red hair in full effect. He looked English, or what I assumed an Englishman would look like from my grandfather’s tales of WWII, the big one. He always commented how threadbare their uniforms were and how gaunt and battle-worn they looked, but to “beat’m,  you’d have to kill’m”. That was tough, BillyBones tough.

The rest of his appearance also fit the pirate profile. His pants faded brown canvas that hung heavy on his form. His shirt billowed in the salty air where the white gauze hadn’t clung to his perspiration. A large buckled belt tied the two together, a walking stick slung beneath like a sword. His face possibly forged in the heat of a hundred summers was sculpted in sun burnt highlights and dull brown hollows that looked more like smudges of dirt than tan. In contrast, his eyes shone sea blue, eyes that knew history, eyes with tales to tell.

 “Mornin’, kid.” the stranger muttered in an exhale as he adjusted the bag slung on his back. It was a statement not a greeting. His eyes lingered for a moment, sizing me up like a wild animal that had stumbled into a clearing only to find the threat of campers. Sensing a safe haven, his look softened ever so slightly and he turned from me, the doe-eyed boy behind the porch screen, and turned his gaze to the path that went from the shoreline towards the center of town.

 “I’m a see’n ya, I’m  a walkin.” He paused a moment in thought. “Morning . . . good mornin,” he muttered to himself. He swung his favored leg out in front of himself to walk away and then turned back to me. Making a double check of his safety level he gave me a slight nod of his unshaven chin. With a squint of his one good eye he shielded from the early sunlight he turned up the path. Perhaps it was a wink. The connection was unspoken but very much real. He knew me, and I might have just met a pirate.

Before I tell you what happened next and the adventure that unfurled that summer, I need to fill you in on the world where my small circle of friends and I were transplanted every summer. To us, summer was the Cove, Lobster Cove on the map, but it was “Lobstah Cove” to us.

There were snowbirds, locals and daytrippers. Snowbirds would fly into town in June as soon as hometown schools closed and stayed in the Cove right through Labor Day. My friends and I were said birds. We did enough time on the Cove so we were welcomed like migrant geese crossing an early spring sky. Locals found themselves trapped in the Cove year ‘round, through the vicious Nor’Easter snowstorms and coastal flooding that would ensue off-season. They were mostly blue collar workers in the fishing industry who worked hard and long through the best months of the year only to find downtime between plowing gigs in the misery that can be winter on the Atlantic coast.

So what is a daytripper you ask? They were the time shares and weekend warriors that congested our fair fishing village just long enough to wear out their welcome.  They came from Albuquerque to Zaire from Memorial Day to Labor Day. They pronounced Lobster Cove devoid of any discerning accent leaving a week later with the best New England accent that they could muster.  ‘Lopstahhh!’

The term “Lopstah” became a slur of sorts like “Arrr!” must be to a pirate. When daytrippers would try to get all chummy and butcher our local-speak with phrases like, “So, how are the Lobstahhh biting?!”, we would just roll our eyes and bite our lips. ‘Go home, ‘tripper! Lopstahs don’t bite; you do!’ we wanted to say.

We knew better. They spoke with cash. The adults, no matter how much the daytrippers looked down their nose at them, refrained as well. They realized that these people were their bread and butter during the short summer months.

Half-awake locals would head to the docks about the same time each morning as my first pirate sighting. They would carry lunch buckets or brown-bag leftovers. Many had beer bellies covered by soiled t-shirts for Red Sox Championships or last year’s NASCAR winners, their glory and color as faded like these shore men’s memories of youth.

They worked hard and they played hard: up before first light and catching last call in the neon-lit confines of locals-only watering holes. At another time and place Billybones would impart to me, “Good men, lobstah men, workin’ with what God gave’m. Can never have a bad drink with a lobstah man,” sounding nothing like a daytripper.

“Ye worst day drinkin’ with a lobsterman is league’s better than drinkin’ top shelf with a landlubber.”

I had to take Billybones word on that. The one time I had tasted alcohol it tasted like paint thinner. I assumed the difference between shelves was similar to Mountain Dew and the generic drink at the Cove Market, a beverage so poor in taste; they didn’t even bother to give it a catchy name, just Lemon-Lime Drink.

First looking upon him I knew that he wasn’t a daytripper or a snowbird. You sensed he was older than the bleached docks at the harbor though he looked barely fifty. He was of old blood, as local as the coastline itself. He could say “Lopstahhh” any time he chose and no one would ever challenge that he didn’t belong.

Billybones had shuffled his way up the street, lame but strong in stride when two of the aforementioned lobstermen crossed his path. The men instinctually knew not to look the man directly in the eyes. They passed, heads bowed slightly, almost reverently. They were a good three paces past before they even dared look back. They huddled together like school boys passing notes in class, fearing of being caught by teacher. One man whispered to the other. BillyBones stopped. The men cowered and stopped in turn. The assumed pirate adjusted his duffel bag and continued towards town. The two men waited a few strides before walking further. Billybones was alpha dog, and no curs in the Cove would contest it.

My first vision of the pirate faded into the morning haze. I sat transfixed on the porch. Was it real or remnants of a dream? I needed to know. I sprang to my feet and bounded out of the breezeway to find someone awake who could confirm my pirate sighting.

The golden hue of first light cast a warm sepia tone on the kitchen walls. The toaster popped up similarly tinged slices of bread. ‘The toaster!’’  That would mean Mom must be about. And as luck would have it, she came around the corner from the pantry with a jar of flour and a wire mesh basket of eggs. ‘Alas, a witness!’  Failing to find words, I grabbed my mother by the arm and dragged her into the porch, almost breaking an egg in the process.

“Tyler Lewis Byrne! What in the heavens has gotten into you?”

She whispered in hopes of keeping my brother asleep. I escorted her briskly to the porch and pointed repetitively like a mute. She followed my finger and looked up the road to the crest of the hill leading to town. The outline of BillyBones could still be seen in the distance through the glare of the sun. I swallowed, more of a gulp, and found my voice.

“Look Ma…” I whispered in a tone even quieter than my mother’s. What if the stranger heard my accusation all the way up the road? I pictured him turning on his heel and looking back with plundering intent.

“…a pirate… see’m?” I asked as if merely asking would question my very own sanity.

 There must be a place where they put delusional kids who see things. Perhaps only adults know of the existence of such institutions. They only talked of the place when they were not within earshot of a child. “Haven’t seen the youngest around these parts in a while, dear?’ ‘Well, one thing led to another and he had to… go away. Saw pirates, the poor thing.”

Admitting the vision to my mother might usher in a fate as fearsome as the potential pirate at my door. If she didn’t see him, then it would surely be a one-way ticket to the booby hatch.

My mother squinted at the figure at the top of the hill, tilted her head a bit to focus and then let out an exasperated sigh. Then she did something that made my heart stop. She opened the front door screen and waved. With a lilting tone she called to him.

“Ahoy!”

It all happened before I could pull her back inside to protect her from whatever wrath was yet to come. ‘Ahoy?! You might as well go Arrr, Ma!’ my inner voice shrieked. The man turned, gave us a curious glance then managed a halfhearted wave as he turned back to the road. My mouth fell open. We had dodged a bullet.

Mother closed the screen and went back to preparing breakfast.

“Him? He’s the curator at the new nautical museum opening in the square. A mister. . . Smythe I believe.” Her air of familiarity was unsettling. She looked at me with a mother’s eyes, all too aware what a short time of this childlike innocence was left.

Stopping her morning chores, she giggled, “A pirate? Of course, a pirate.” Her amused voice was louder than before and was enough to rustle my older brother Ryan from cutting Zs on the living room couch.

“Maaa? Wh’d ya say,” he muttered half-awake under a rubble of sheets. I looked desperately at my mother silently pleading, ‘Noooo!’

“I said pirate dear, imagine that! Tyler thought he saw a pirate.” My inner voice lamented, ‘O man, here it comes…‘  Ryan’s head popped up from under the sheets like a maniacal teenage jack-in-the-box. He was all cow-licked hair, pimples and smiles.

My 16 year old poor-excuse-for-a-brother paused a second so that his slow mind could load up with verbal ammunition. The sound and smell of sizzling bacon filled the cottage as both the strips of pork and I were grilled.

 “A pirate ya’ say? Sure it wasn’t the Easter Bunny, twerp? I hear that Santa Claus vacations here this time of year. He’s got that whole beard and boots thing going on too. Sure it wasn’t the jolly old elf? Snap!”

He rolled back into the sheets in a fit of uncontrollable laughter.

The morning all but faded from memory. I spent the rest of the day awash in daydream questioning whether or not I had even seen the supposed pirate at all. The man I had named BillyBones became a half-real, half-imagined figment of my imagination.

It wasn’t until after dark that the moment played back in my mind, sharper and more vivid than it had in the hazy morning light. I was alone in my bed, tucked snugly into the eaves on the second floor of our cottage. The repetition of the tide lulled me to dreamland. I saw his figure fade into the distance as my mother turned away from the door. Then, just as I started to turn to follow her to the kitchen, I looked back. BillyBones face appeared not three feet before me on the other side of the screen, smelling of Old Spice and chum.

‘So, yer thought ya’ mighta’ seen a Pirate, did ya Lubby??’, he spewed, one eye blazing blue in my direction, one hazed over, not quite looking my way. His jagged teeth, a sickly yellow grimace. “Well, did ya or didn’t ya!,” he hollered, his spittle spraying against the screen door  like sea foam. “Well, well, boy… stranger things have happened… and will!”

Suddenly there was the tip of a sword, a flash of steel, a spray of crimson. The blade tore through the screen, just shy of my right ear. I heard the rapier blade sing, its warmth cutting air.

I awoke, rushed to the upstairs window and look down on the road below. It was basked in pockets of streetlight. From the shadows I heard a footfall, then drag, footfall, drag. I looked further up the road to see the profile of BillyBones in the distance disappearing past the road’s far horizon.

Writing it all off as a bad dream, the result of one too many slices of pepperoni pizza, I turned back to the comfort of my bed. Resting on my pillow lay a sheered lock of my hair, a halo of crimson pin dots encircling it.

I then went to the linen closet to change my sheets.

________

The 3rd of July

In celebration of the holiday weekend I am posting the following excerpt from The Pirates of Lobster Cove, It is the back story of Francis “Frankie” Gambino, the trusty compatriot of Tyler Bryne, the narrator.

He is one of the four teens who call themselves The Cyrkle. His friends include Sandy Womack, the resident drama queen and bookworm, Bess Duvall, a tomboy’s tomboy, and Tyler, his inquisitive and over imaginative best friend who believes he has seen a flesh and blood pirate walking the streets of Lobster Cove.

During the years it took to complete the first novel I read this passage countless times to the children of my own seaside town by the light of a campfire. Those evenings were always special to me, made me a better writer and kept me grounded in the world of the teenager. Thank you to all who listened and stayed enthusiastic as months turned into years. 

Feel free to read it aloud. Celebrate the holiday and the ensuing fireworks but remember, be careful. We are all not as lucky as Gatto Gambino.

At first, the nickname Gatto came from the uncanny way he cheated death. Like his namesake, he had nine lives. At the beginning of this summer he was on life three.

The end of his first life was a mystery to us. It had something to do with his birth, tentative first months and his mother’s tears. All we knew was that Gatto was damn lucky to be here . His mother frequently warned him of this fact whenever he was even remotely in danger. Her voice would peal through the screen door of their porch.

“For the love of St. Pete, Francis Anthony Gambino! If I told you once, I told you a million times, stop it! You know you’re damn lucky to be here, don’t push it!”

Every summer, pushing it became our favorite pastime. It was more than just the thrill of the risk; it was about testing the patience of Mama Gambino and Gatto’s guardian angel. We swam past the bobbers at the beach, cannon-balled off of the high ledge of the jetty, shot tennis balls out of a makeshift cannon, anything to set off his mom.  We’d time how long it took for her to remind Gatto of his lost life. Summers are long on the Cove, you find fun where you can.

We weren’t daring, we just liked to appear so. Every stunt was performed with the utmost regard for safety. Take the homemade rocket launcher, Gatto’s invention, it sounded dangerous as all get out but was fortified with precautions. The tennis ball can was secured on a cinder block anchored with duck tape lit with a match attached to the end of a yardstick. One of The Cyrkle stood poised with the gun nozzle of a garden hose at the ready. We weren’t stupid.

Gatto’s second life had been snuffed out just the summer before. It went out in a blaze of glory.

The Fourth of July weekend in any coastline tourist community is a celebration of everything American.  Every stoop and railing is festooned in our nation’s colors. The marches of John Phillip Sousa drift in the air intertwined with whispers of Kokomo, Hot, Hot, Hot and rump-shaking dance beats blaring from boom boxes. The lapping surf, the occasional racket of firecrackers and the laughter of the young and old join the medley. Every patio has barb-b-q; charcoal and burnt hot dogs fill the air. Everyone is at leisure; all is right with the world.

The shore slowly transforms into an American Carnivale. The sun hangs low; clouds glow in bursts of orange and red. Freedom is in the offing. At this time the illicit proceedings dial gets turned up to eleven.

 Now, fireworks are illegal in our state, but you wouldn’t know it by the evening’s proceedings. There are no fewer than six bunkers of amateur fireworks simultaneously being shot off the Cove’s beachhead alone. Sulfur taints the pleasant scents of late afternoon revelry. The gathering crowd breaks into swells of “Ooos” and “Ahhs”.

These aren’t every day, ‘look, honey, what I smuggled out of South Carolina during my last golf outing’ brand of fireworks. These are ‘You need a permit, a fire truck at the ready and at what time would you like the Boston Pops to break into the 1812 Overture type of fireworks.’

The proceedings are four straight hours of unsupervised mayhem. It is an adult recess with no fear of timeouts. Ramparts and fountains of ill-directed color shower from the trenches on the beach. Fishing boats join the fury with their own displays shooting from their top decks. Looking through the smoke you can see the distant glowing balls of bonfires littering the shoreline. More fireworks blossom in miniature in the far distance. The night is on fire.

On the last summer of Gatto’s second life, a group of us local kids decided that the view wasn’t good enough behind the safe confines of the concrete seawall. That wouldn’t do at all. We had to climb down to the rock and sand of the beach to get closer to the action, we had to push it.

To our credit we were in a group. There was safety in numbers.  The Cyrkle plays it safe, right? Wrong, not that night.

Why the following occurred is still up for debate. It could have been the beer-goggled lack of judgment of the yahoos shooting off artillery grade fireworks at high tide. It could have been a freak act of Nature like an East Coast version of the Santa Anna Winds. Perhaps Fate the Dealer was sending the message to Gatto that he’s been gambling at his table of life a bit too long. Whatever the cause, folly or fate, what went down that night still plays in my memory in slow motion.

This all occured in less than twenty seconds. One firework, instead of going skyward, burst forth in a horizontal trajectory, only inches from the sand. Its direction moved from the water’s edge toward the seawall with us, the Cyrkle, stuck in-between. We all dove from its path, that is, everyone except Gatto. As if aware of our counter move, the white-hot comet made impact against a rock that protruded from the shore like the molar of some ancient animal skull, and burst into four separate projectiles fanning across the entire perimeter of the beach.

Instinctually, I dropped flat and rolled into the safety of the sand. I would have burrowed to China if I’d had time. Others grabbed one another, forcing themselves to the ground. We were all safe; that firework had Gatto’s name on it.

I remember Gatto’s eyes­­, brown, awe-filled, and puppy dog wide. He fell to his knees as if the pearly gates themselves were opening to him. I could see the reflection of the orb growing wider until it eclipsed his pupils. I didn’t have the time to open my mouth, never mind call out.

Then there was sizzle, darkness and silence.

That accounts for the snuffing out of Gatto’s second life, but what happened in the minutes that followed astonished me more, binding Gatto and myself as friends for life. The accident called up something in him that, frankly, I had never possessed.

I thought back to when my mother would try to rattle some religion into me. Whenever I was the least bit blasphemous she say, “Who do you call when you are at your most troubled, what is the name you call out? God, that’s who”.

I would look back at her and shake my head. “No, I holler, Maaa!”

Gatto didn’t set off the Ma alarm that night. He deftly peeled the loose firework from his cheek. It fell to the ground shattering into embers. Cupping his eye like an EMT at an accident site, he stared through the haze for the first adult that came into view. He said in an unsettling rational voice, “It burns.”

The neighborhood panicked for him, grabbing him up by the arm and carrying him to safety like a fallen soldier. Once inside the nearest seaside estate, Gatto remained cool as a cucumber giving his caretakers information when asked. “Can’t open it”, he instructed, the pressure building moment by moment. “Hot.” “Blurry.” “Ice.”

Only when danger was a good distance past him, when the hysterical adults had given him a moment alone, did he cry. He never told me this, but I knew he did; he had to. If a flaming ball of consequence attempted to blind me, I surely would have.

Gatto’s coolness under fire and Angel Gabriel’s intervention scorched a badge of courage across his young face. He was Rocky Balboa in miniature; his stocky twelve-year-old Italian features highlighted with a plum of a shiner around his left eye.

They took him to his family cottage to rest. I finally battled through the distraught crowd to see him. Opening the door, I got a good, long look at his face. ‘Too close!’ my inner voice stammered.

We looked at each other… well, I looked, he half-squinted, half-winced. I held back the quiver of my concern. I hollered, “Adrianne!!” in the best Sylvester Stallone imitation I could muster, cracking a forced smile. A trembling grin replaced Gatto’s wince-squint.

At that moment our friendship was forged; a bond tested during the months ahead. This summer would take Gatto’s third life. He was the Robin to my Batman, the Poncho to my Quixote, and that summer, the Black Bart to my Captain Blood. In truth, the roles should have been reversed.

(excerpt from The Pirates of Lobster Cove by S.E. Toon)

Dead Men's Tales

This is the epilogue of The Pirates of Lobster Cove. I have been told it sounds like a commencement address and since it has no spoiler alerts for anyone who hasn't read the book, I present it here for all this graduation season. To everyone, good luck on your next adventure! (FYI: GREEN MEMORY occurs in the book as memories that have faded to the point that they don't seem real or can't be recalled. THE CYRKLE is the group of four heroes in the novel and DAMMEDS, well, they are nasty, hungry things that wouldn't be appropriate discussing here.)

Now I don’t want to get all L. Frank Baum on you with some Wizard of Oz moral. What I leave you with is this, once you find a home, be it where you sleep or where you summer with inseparable friends; live there.

In that classic book and film the Good Witch says ‘there’s no place like home’. It was all Technicolor pretty and lollipop sweet. Pay no attention to the terrifying flying monkeys, falling houses and chicks painted green. Take it all in and go along for the ride with every thread of your being invested in the outcome. Go too slow and the fantastic in life will fade. You’ll see the boom mike hovering in shot over a little girl marked for tragedy or the shadow of a set worker dangling from a rope backstage between papier-mâché trees.

There is really only one pirate, time itself. It holds in its possession the ultimate of treasures, the gift of memory. We emulate its piratical actions in hopes of capturing just one more to add to our collection. The pirate, time, is one tough adversary. As we grow older it takes the very gifts it has given, one memory at a time. Ah, but it can be beaten. Hold on to your few green memories that matter most. When you talk to the elderly, many stumble over the day to day but recall the highlights of their past vividly.

That’s the trick, tell your tale. The only thing that differentiates us from other animals is opposable thumbs, the ability to tell stories and free will. May your will allow the tale of your life to be told with your every breath.

May you all find your own Cyrkle. Soak up the sun while it shines and to quote Kurt Vonnegut, “wear sunscreen”. The Hallmark cards speak the truth; home is where the heart is. Not located north of the rib cage, a waiting dinner for dammeds, but where your passions lie. Oh… and stay out of the shadows no matter how much they beckon you to their home.

Think of this as Zen and the Art of Inner Pirate Maintenance. Time is but a fleeting thing, feathers dancing in the faraway. It is a vision let loose, a gull riding the wrath of a Nor’easter, motionless in midair. The turbulence feeds its bliss. The only way to beat this pirate of all pirates is to refute its very power over us; to cherish our past but live fearlessly in the present.

Live for the moment, live in it and don’t try to control where it may lead. Be an active witness and like a sea breeze over a fading sunset, its beauty will take you places your mind can only dream. Be in that moment always.

I wait for the day when I look out over the new day given and get it. After this summer I may know more than most, but it comforts not. The only solace is in the faith that our efforts, however feeble, matter in the grandiose scheme of things. The end to all tales is always the same. All will pass despite good intentions.

Do may be better than try, but try ain’t bad when it’s all you’ve got. In the end it’s just the eternal battle between the devil and the deep blue me.