Gilboy’s Quest

by Sam Ivey

Chapter I
part 3 of 3

Scratching his head, and with a measure of disappointment clearly evident, Gilboy said, “Well, to tell the truth, Mister Jerome, I had hoped to sail this afternoon.” He looked at his watch. “There’s a favorable tide in a couple of hours, and I was hoping to catch it. But I just don’t see how I’ll be able to get all of that done in time.”

“No, I’m afraid not, Mister Gilboy. We close at three. How about tomorrow morning?”

“Yes, I guess that will have to do. I can get the information over to the Surveyor early, and then I’ll see you as soon as possible after that.”

“That’ll be fine, Mister Gilboy. Until tomorrow then.” There was a handshake and he left.

After returning to the boat and having made it secure for the night, he headed for his hotel. On the way, a small Italian restaurant caught his eye, and he entered. He ordered, and along with a heavy mug of black coffee, an enormous plate of spaghetti — liberally frosted with Romano cheese and with steam rising — was brought to his table.

As he enjoyed this last supper ashore, a multitude of reflections replaced one another in his mind — thoughts of his family for the most part. And he pondered the immediate future: tomorrow. Tomorrow would be the day. Tomorrow his dream would begin to materialize.

“Well, I believe that gets everything in order, Bernard.” Edward Jerome was smiling from across his desk this morning as he handed over a fat envelope. “Here are your papers. You’ll find documentation there showing the vessel to be American built, and that verifies your port of departure as San Francisco.”

“Thank you, Mister Jerome. I’m obliged to you.”

“Not at all, Bernard, not at all. So...” and now he paused, “you’re off to Australia. I hope you won’t think it judgmental of me if I say that yours is a very small boat.”

Gilboy grinned. “So I’ve been reminded, Mister Jerome, but I’m confident that she can make it.”

“How about yourself, Bernard? Can you make it?”

Gilboy paused to ponder for a moment before he said, “I have every reason to believe I can, Mister Jerome. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t go.”

Jerome nodded his head soberly, with understanding. “Well, Bernard, I wish you the very best. May it be following seas and fair winds for you.”

They both stood and shook hands. “Thank you, Mister Jerome. I’ll try to send you a letter.”

Arriving back at the boat by noon, he was surprised to find that a considerable crowd had gathered. Some dockworkers were there, quite naturally, and some loiterers; even a couple of reporters had put in an appearance. Indeed, there were far more than he wished. But among them was Howard Sutro.

They shook hands as Gilboy smiled and said, “I’m glad you could make it, Howard.”

“Took the afternoon off from work, Bernard. I wouldn’t have missed this for anything. You really are going, aren’t you.”

“Yes, Howard, I’m really going. It’s something I have to do, but don’t ask me why?”

From the crowd there were questions that previously would have remained unanswered. “You’re going alone?” queried one. “Where are you bound?” asked another.

“Yes, I’m going alone,” he said, “and I’m heading for Australia.”

Now he could let it be known. This would be the entirety of the crowd, and secrecy was no longer an issue.

A murmur of surprise went through the group, with one person observing, “Oh, now that’s a piece! How long do you think it’ll take?”

“I figure about five months — give or take a few days.”

“Friday’s not a good day for sailing,” suggested another, the person evidently familiar with maritime superstition. “It could be bad luck.”

Gilboy grinned. “Can’t be helped. Call it Friday’s Challenge, if you like. I was ready to leave yesterday, but was unable to get clearance in time. So today is the day, and one day is as good as another to me.”

Howard asked, “Do you have everything you need, Bernard?” Some concern was easily identifiable in his voice. “Have you forgotten anything?”

“Probably,” Gilboy said with a laugh, “But I’ve double-checked everything I can imagine. I’ve got two compasses, a clock, a watch, a chart of the South Pacific; I’ve got my navigation books and my sextant; I’ve got oars; there’s food and water a-plenty. I’ve even got an umbrella, mostly to keep the sun off. And I’ve got my Bible. That’ll bring me a lot of comfort, I know.” He looked at his watch. “One o’clock, Howard. Tide’s on the ebb, and that means it’s time for me to shove off.”

He shook hands with his friend before Sutro smothered him in a warm, brotherly embrace. Then looking Gilboy straight in the face he said, “God be with you, Bernard.” Tears of affection glistened in his eyes.

“And with you, Howard, my very dear friend.”

Then he walked forward along the dock to where he cast off the bow line, tossing it onto the foredeck before stepping down into the boat. Sutro knelt and loosed the stern line, the last vestige of attachment to the land. Standing again, he tossed it to Gilboy in the tiny cockpit, while Pacific began drifting seaward on the current.

“Well, all aboard for Australia!” Gilboy called as he smiled and waved a farewell.

Then he put the tiller to port, and the tiny craft moved toward mid-channel. The crowd watched and cheered as the mainsail was hoisted, and the boat swung head to wind before the jib was spread. Then the foresail was raised, the sheets were trimmed, and the sails filled in the cool, brisk wind that swept across San Francisco.

Gilboy seated himself now and began steering his little craft down the bay. Suddenly, in that emotionally pregnant moment, he was inordinately impacted with the fact that the wordless days had begun. Silent days, companionless days that would be seemingly endless, lay ahead; days wherein he would, at times, be pressed to draw upon everything that he was inside.

The sail down the bay was a wet one, as the wind whipped the darkening waters into a choppy frenzy. Sitting so low as she did — laden with over 3,000 pounds of foods, and with hundreds of pounds of gear in addition — the craft took a lot of water over the deck. By the time Lime Point was reached, close to the bay’s entrance, Gilboy was thoroughly wetted. And ahead of him the afternoon fog was already thickening like a gelled mass; visibility was being reduced at a rapid rate. He looked with reservation at the gray, visually impenetrable wall, considering the forbidding nothingness that it communicated. With the hazard of collision so imminent, he thought it an obvious folly to proceed any farther. Wisdom dictated that he find suitable anchorage for the night.

Lying just around the Point, he found a small inlet that would provide an ideal place to shelter from the elements. Into those quieter waters he steered the little vessel, swung her head to the wind and dropped the sails. The time was 5:30.

With the boat secure, having set the anchor and furled the sails, he started the kerosene oil stove and prepared dinner: roast chicken, bread and coffee. The warmth of his first meal at sea that evening was very welcome, and afterward, even though largely from exhaustion and in spite of the cramped space, he slept well that night.

And now the contest was engaged; the battle was joined, and it would be him against the elements, a man and his boat. He had accepted the challenge; he had stepped over the line.

* * *

On this Saturday morning, Howard Sutro sat on the sofa in his living room, reading the San Francisco Daily Examiner.

“Did you see this in the paper, Evelyn?” he said, calling to his wife who was preparing breakfast in the kitchen.

“I haven’t seen the paper this morning,” she said, spooning coffee into the basket of the percolator pot, and setting it on the back burner of the stove. She turned the gas up high.

“Well Bernard did the right thing by not letting the rest of the city know what he was about these past few weeks.”

As he said it he rose, shaking the pages straight and folding them back on themselves, walking toward the kitchen where he leaned against the doorway and continued reading to himself. The smell of bacon was strong in the air.

Evelyn turned from basting eggs in a blackened, cast-iron skillet. Looking at her husband, she prompted, “So what is it you’re reading? What is it about Bernard?”

“Listen to this, Evelyn. Of all the cockamamie writing... Newspapers never seem to get things right.”

“So I’m waiting,” she prompted, making little wavelets of bacon grease to wash over the tops of four sunnyside eggs.

“Okay, here’s the headline,” Sutro went on. “’Reckless Voyaging’. Reckless voyaging, my foot! Bernard is about as reckless as a squirrel storing nuts. He plans, Evelyn, he plans. What these people see as recklessness is... well, it’s calculated courage; that’s what it is. Bernard has planned this thing that he’s doing very, very carefully. Nothing reckless about it.” He slapped the pages with the back of his hand.

“And what does the article say?” she prompted again.

“Just listen to this: ‘No little excitement was caused among the crowd of loungers who frequent the...’ Well, I guess I was a lounger yesterday. ‘. . . who frequent the boatsteps at the foot of Washington Street yesterday afternoon, when a small skiff...’ They didn’t even describe the boat correctly. It’s not a skiff. It’s a schooner; it’s a little schooner. ‘. . . a small skiff, rigged with two masts and flying at the fore a huge American flag, pulled out from the dock, and a swarthy individual who took great pains to keep his name concealed, rose in the stern and shouted, “All aboard for Australia!”’” He paused. “Why... they try to make him sound like a loony!”

“Did he actually say that? Did he say, ‘All aboard for Australia’?”

“Well, yes, he did, but he was joking. You know how Bernard is.”

“Yes, I do. And I also seem to remember that you called his idea — what was it — hare-brained?”

Sutro looked at his wife. “Well... yes, I guess I did,” he said humbly, “but I didn’t mean it the way that... Just listen! Listen to the way this goes on: ‘Inquiry at the Custom-house showed that he had not obtained clearance papers.’ Now that’s a lot of malarkey. He got them yesterday morning just before he sailed. Had ’em in his hand when he came to the boat. I was there! As a matter of fact, he showed me his custom certificate, and we both laughed over the wording. They had written on it that he was starting on... and this is a quote, ‘A voyage of pleasure.’ So I know he had papers. And now get this! This is the way the article ends: ‘Why he should desire to make the dangerous trip to the Southern Continent is a mystery, and it is more than probable that before he is many days out he will tack for the California coast, and consider himself lucky if he ever reaches it.’ Now that’s what I call irresponsible journalism.”

“Well, they may be right, Dear,” she said, lifting the eggs onto two plates. “I know how strongly you feel about Bernard, but you must admit that they could be right.” She forked rashers of bacon alongside the eggs and took four pieces of toast from the oven where they were being kept warm.

Sutro shook his head. “I don’t think so, Evelyn. No, he’ll either complete the trip or — God help him — he’ll die in the attempt.”

“Well let’s hope that doesn’t happen. Sit down, Dear. Let’s have breakfast before the eggs get cold.”

To be continued...