Shoal Hope, the sinking of the S-4
Gracie watches a destroyer round Long Point. The curl of her bow wave is white against the gray-green water. Its stacks gout black smoke in a receding arc behind, Gotta bad feelin’ ’bout this…. Cramps stab his gut. Even before he notices the periscope. Its miniature wave curling away behind. An echo of the others.
Submarine been surfacin’ and submergin’ all day. Running on a course parallel to the shore on the surface, Sending up a high bow wave. The water sucked down low amidships to get past the fat bulge of the ballast tanks. Its wake rose high over the narrow stern above frothing propellers, churning white. A v-wave in the wake throws crests out to break rhythmically along the shore. Tight curls racing towards him and then past with an uninterrupted, Swooooosh.
Submarines from New London or Portsmouth, ships from destroyers to battleships out of Bath or Boston — even the New York Navy-yard — run this measured-mile all the time. A double set of range markers, tall wooden tripods support a high-pole with a slatted-wood diamond on top, fifty-feet above the shoreline. High above the low, scrubby dunes. When a ship aligns two markers on their beam they’re at one end of the course. When the other two align they’ve completed the run. Timing a run measures their speed. Averaging opposing runs cancels the effects of wind and current.
Fortunes ride on the outcome. If a ship fails to meet its contracted performance the Navy might reject it or demand a penalty from its builder. New ships and those returning to service after refits all come to test themselves against this measured mile.
Gracie is the keeper of Wood End Light, I seen ‘em all. The North Atlantic Squadron files by here every summah. The Great White Fleet stopped in Provincetown at the start of its around-the-world cruise, Showin’ off Tedd’ay Roosevelt’s Big Stick. Plent’ay o’ fou’ah-stack’ahs just like this ’en. Fresh from they’ah build’ahs on they’ah way to fight the Kais’ah’s U-boats off Ireland in 1918.
This submarine b’longs to the Navy. The destroyer don’t. Pa’aht o’ Coolidge’s anti-rumrunn’ah fleet. Sails und’ah the Coast Ga’ahd ensign. CG-17 painted tall on its bow. Pulled out o’ mothballs, along with a handful of oth’ahs left ov’ah from the Great Wa’ah. They patrol ou’ah sho’ahs now. Keep the country dry! Now they’a not needed t’ make the wo’hld safe fo’ah d’mocracy.
Gracie was in the old Life Saving Service. Worked for the Lighthouse Service too. Long before they joined the Revenue Service to form the Coast Guard, Made sense, durin’ the wo’ah. Prohibition? Cowboys-an’-Indians! Shenanigans! Not so shu’ah anymo’ah. Mo’ah mon’ay goin’ up those fou’ah stacks in an aft’ahnoon than it costs to run this lighthouse fo’ah a yea’ah.
He runs for his dory, head down, pulling his Sou’wester over his ears. Hoping against all reason, I can do somethin’. Somehow bend this disaster in the making.
Almost to the dory he hears a muffled, screech, metal-on-metal, A collision. He looks out to see the submarine's conning tower jut above the surface. Its black bow high out of the water. The destroyer crosses between the two. The submarine, over-run, is knocked over. By the time the destroyer leaves the spot where it began to surface it’s gone. A slick of bubbles and an up-welling of water, Like a giant whale-fluke’s footprint. All that’s left to show where they went down. He works to fix this spot in his memory, imagining what the ranges must be in the hopes of recognizing the location from his boat. The sea’s fluid surface quickly heals, leaving nothing but a smooth expanse of wavelets that trail each other across the bay.
Is that it? He's afraid to speak out, No one to hea’ah me anyway. A thin manila line trails over his wrists as he rows. Tied off to the forward thwart. It runs over his shoulder and across his hands to bend over the rail and dip below the sea, “Could be!” He says aloud. Takes another stroke. The boat slews to port. The line goes taught.
It’s attached to a light grapnel. He’s been dragging it across the bottom for hours, tripping along, skidding over the sand. It would catch momentarily. Snag on something small, a rock, a waterlogged stump, Gave up wonderin’ what-all’s down the’ya! Each time the tension eased. Whenever the line would go slack he would hunker down and keep rowing at an easy pace.
Rowin’. Only thin’ keepin’ me wa’hm. Wa’hm’ah…. His feet numb in his rubber boots. His right sleeve wet to the elbow inside his slicker from reaching into the water, tugging on the line to test promising snags.
It’s d’ahk. Lighthouse beams flicker and pulse around him. An intermittent glow from the town comes and goes out of view. Occluded by dunes or visible again behind the flatter stretches of the Point. Stars glitter through holes in the cloud cover. None of these lights are in any way warming or welcoming. He barely notices. Concentrating on the icy bottom a hundred feet down, The submarine’s they’ya somewhe’ah. Out he’ah, cold as I am. Fa’ah from me bed. What’s it like down they’ya? Trapped. Held by his sense of duty, I do what I can.
“It’s holdin’!” He leans into the line. Draws back, bracing his feet against the boat’s bottom, hauling with his arms, his back, his legs. The dory slews right around broadside. He has her rail rolled down to the water. “Could be anythin’….”
“I ain’t lettin’ go!” Afraid the boat might swing around to ride downwind. That the grapnel might lose its hold, Just a bent metal rod. Not a b’ahbed fishhook. I’ve snagged somethin’. Not capt’shad it. N'oaht like I set the hook in the mouth of a giant Halibut like old Geo’hge Washin’ton Carv’ah. Right ‘round he’ah. Years ago. A day and a night fightin’ that fish, towin’ it int’a Railroad Wh’ahf the next mo’hnin’. Hauled it on the hoistin’ tackle. The size of a ba’hn do’ah!
No, I have to keep a light, stead'ay pres’sha on the line. Hold it in the same d’rection o’ travel. Hard to take a bearin’s out he’ah. ‘Lready lost a couple of promisin’ nibbles. The line goin' slack after a good solid tug.
They's just boys, mostl’ay. No tellin’ if anybody’s alive…. He shrugs. Against the thought as much as against the cold, Gotta keep the boat headed this way. A stead’ay pres’sha on the line.
Navy’ll get he’ah sometime. This thought is his only comfort, Bound to show up. I'll hand ov’ah the grapnel line….
He finds and loses the submarine three more times. USS Bushnell appears over the horizon in the morning. He passes them the grapnel line.
They lose it. He drags for a few more hours before he finds it again. He passes it across to the Submarine Tender’s whaleboat crew, I done what I can.
He rows ashore to tend his light.
I lived in Provincetown for many years and served on the Board of Zoning. Due to China's spying balloons, the Coast Guard has been patrolling coastlines to seek any foreign spy balloons and drones. They also have exercises to prepare for any threat to our shores. Be thankful our waterways and coastlines are routinely patrolled for you and your family's safety. Get a reality grip, PLEASE!