Fake Newspapers, Gag Birthday Gifts; Leaping Lizard, Part II

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We decided, finally, that given an extremely high tide, with perhaps a little swell, if you please, a stout bit of ground tackle and a trifle more luck we might float the wreck that evening. Once back in her element we could ponder, at our leisure, what might ultimately become of her. But for the moment we had quite enough to occupy our minds in setting the slings and winching gear, and the entire crew threw their backs to the work.

We worked feverishly for the next hours, unconscious of the passing of time or the need for rest and food. Such a tide as we required was coming up that evening, and we must not be late. The entire crew was oblivious to the gawkings of the bystanders and passers-by. They filed past the site as the opening of King Tut's Tomb, all eager to see the destruction and waste, first hand.

Finally one of the drivers of the trucks that was dismantling the superstructure of poor Lizzy volunteered to travel to the village to fetch a snack. We'd all completed our respective orders and had entrusted him with a sizable sum, and just as he was to pull away, I realized I'd forgotten to request a particularly tasty item, and I ran the short distance from the site to the truck, calling after the driver. It was then I noticed a pile of debris where none should have been. I had been conscientious about respecting the property of those living near the scene, and had been adamant in instructing all personnel to keep the wreckage out of everyone's way. This then, was a breach.

It was a large pile, perhaps ten feet in height and at least fifty feet in diameter, and it was squarely in the middle of the road that led to the Leaping Lizard II down on the beach. I began to reprimand the driver for his seeming carelessness, and then I looked again. Persons and vehicles unknown to me were pulling up and depositing things in the pile. It could have been Sunday afternoon at the county dump, and instantly I was touched that at least a few of the townsfolk had seen the error of their ways and were assisting us in the clean up of the tons of debris. The spirit was consoled.

But I looked again, and a closer examination revealed that the items being deposited were not assorted riff-raff and junk. There were things, valuable things: A galley stove, the sink, the head, soggy blankets and pillows, the long lost binnacle, and parts of the giant puzzle that would take considerable figuring to see where they went. Piece by piece, they were bringing back our ship!

Unbeknownst to us, this migration of goods had been taking place for hours. Presently the crews noticed the strange procession and gathered around my vantage point, a hundred yards from the pile. We watched station wagons full of children back up to the mound and gently toss out their things. Rusty pick-ups followed suit with half a ton of unknown trinkets. The ship's wheel was delivered, in stately style, by some older gentleman at the controls of a shiny new Cadillac, and he rested the relic gingerly against a soft, wet mattress lying on the ground. Most preferred not to take note of us, watching silently from the shadows, but occasionally some lone robber-turned-hero would glance over and nod or wave. Most, however, were not nearly so honest at the business of dishonesty, and wished only to have some peace from their tarnished conscience. And all the while we just sat, and with every single offering by those misguided folks, my esteem of our species rose grandly up a notch..

Along in the afternoon, as the air began to cool and the daily breeze slacked and fell silent, I considered that this unsightly pile of things should be picked up and carried away. There was the thought that leaving the scar lay any longer than necessary was to but salt the emotional wounds of those who had risked all to return our property. And then again there was always the chance that the motley bunch would reconsider their graciousness and storm us with clubs and knives to reclaim the treasure. But just as we packed the last of the unidentifiable stuff into a truck, a pock-marked and rusty car approached cautiously down the winding hill to where we stood. Instead of driving to the opposite side of the few remaining items on the ground, the car pulled carefully around them and stopped precisely at our feet. Inside was an old, white-headed man, and as he fumbled weakly with the handle of the door, I could make out some awkward object in his hand. Finally he extracted himself from the driver's seat with considerable effort and pain, and shuffled stiffly up to me. I thought for an instant that he might take a swing. I knew not why, but we had been witness to so much illogical and bizarre behavior in the last hours that I was prepared for most any stunt by this group or any one of its zany members. The man's ungainly gait and uncomfortable stance led one to perceive he was bracing for the effort. But again my pessimism showed me up, for he was bracing for my blow, at least the swing he thought was sure to come. He stood straight and unprotected, allowing full access to the tender parts of the face. It was a sign of complete submission; he would take it like a man, whatever he thought was to come. He looked me in the eye and his thin frame began to shake. His head jerked convulsively and he thrust forward a trembling, wizened old hand.

"I took this off your ship," he began in a strong, straightforward voice. "And I am truly sorry..." But that's about all he could squeak out. His tone trailed off into a small noise or two, and realizing he could proceed no further, he stopped, stiffened, and prepared for the worst. He would take it like a man.

I took the valueless, rusty cleat from his still wavering, outstretched hand, and at that he closed his eyes. There he stood, strong and proud that he had been true to himself, and ready for the wrath of those he had transgressed against.

Most of the crew turned away. The emotion was more than they could absorb. I attempted to speak, but then thought better of it lest my own voice betray its master and falter or break. I took his hand, squeezed it firmly, hoping to impart some sense of my empathy for the man, and I shook it, long and hard, great, jolting strokes, and with the other hand I clapped him on the shoulder. My eyes were wet, and my mouth moved once or twice with no sound coming out, like some damned, ridiculous Goldfish.

"Thank you." I finally said, and then stopped....and after a moment's curious regard, he replied in an odd tone, "You're welcome...."

He turned quickly so no one could see his face. He slid sprightly into his car, started the wheezing engine, and drove deliberately away... Without a word, we went back to our work...

As we were wrapping up for the evening, putting tools away and making certain of the integrity of our straps and slings about the carcass of the Leaping Lizard, a sheriff's deputy drove up. He'd been advised of the strange proceedings of the day and offered to render any assistance appropriate. We replied that there was certainly no cause to levy serious charges against any of the persons present that afternoon, but that we were still missing a number of relatively important items, and I gave him a list. The gentle-man was friend or acquaintance to most everyone thereabouts, and offered that we should make personal contact with a number of "suspects" within the community. There was ample time before high tide and our attempt at ungrounding the casualty, and so for the next three hours the deputy and I drove about the neighborhood, calling virtually door to door, asking politely for the return of the still absent pieces of our dismembered ship. Most complied instantly, at the sight of the uniform, but sadly, a large number held out to the end. In several cases I was asked to wait in the car while the officer took the offender aside.

"Well, now, Slim," he would begin. "You know we've got a kind of ticklish situation on out hands, here..." And the two would stroll off around the back of a shed or into the dark of a garage, and presently they would emerge, --or at times just the deputy alone carrying whatever item it was we sought. He would throw it in the trunk of the unit with a disdainful thud, and we would proceed somberly on to the next address.

We did finally locate the radio gear and assorted electronics from some fifteen year old boy who had just wanted to see how they worked. And he had repaired several circuits, too! The ship's batteries were discovered in the workshop of a very prominent resident, who had no use for the things whatever. The screw of the vessel; it was uncovered, literally from its grave, buried in the backyard of the judge. A friend of his son had desired to keep the treasure safe.....at least that was the tale... And so it went, until by high tide we had recovered nearly ninety percent of our prize, and we forged ahead no further.

At midnight straight up the tide flooded up under the tired bones of the Lizzy and gently caressed her aching frame until she rose away as some spirit on a wafting cloud. We pulled her softly from that grave and towed home the corpse. She was sold to a wood-cutter and was eventually rendered and burned. Most of her gear was integrated into our own boats, and to this day serves them well.