Death In Vineyard Waters by Philip R. Craig

Author:Philip R. Craig [Craig, Philip R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780060542894
Publisher: Avon
Published: 1991-02-28T23:00:00+00:00

Most of the time the island of Chappaquiddick isn’t an island at all, but a peninsula linked to the Vineyard by a spit of sand along South Beach called, on some maps, Norton’s Point.

It’s called Norton’s Point because from time to time a storm comes along and knocks a channel through the sand spit; Chappy becomes an island and the sand spit west of the opening becomes a point named after a local fisherman of yore. Between the two, the tides flow to and fro, into Katama Bay on the rising tide and back into the sea on the ebb. Boatmen, if they can find a channel deep enough for their vessels, take advantage of the opening to save themselves the long trip around Cape Pogue; when the tidal river isn’t too fast, young people ride inner tubes downstream through the opening. When the tide is falling and the winds and surf are strong from the south, the opening is a dangerous place. The outflowing tide meets the wind-driven surf and there is a wild, swirling sea, with crashing waves, whirling currents, and a shifting of sands. Where once a channel was, there may now be shallow sandbars to seize your boat and break it under thundering surf. A sailor tossed from his boat may be knocked down again and again by the surf as he strives for shore until he cannot rise again.

Normally such openings are short lived. As the tides move along the southern shore, the sands build along the western edge of the opening and the opening moves slowly to the east until, finally, it fills and is no more. Norton’s point is no longer a point and Chappaquiddick is again a peninsula. And the fishermen can once more drive their four-by-fours to Wasque to fish the rip.

But that was days or weeks away. Now, Wasque was hard to reach. I’d have to take the ferry or a boat I didn’t have. My dinghy was too small for the trip, particularly at night or if the sea was rough.

I drove down the beach until I fetched the opening. The water was flowing out at a considerable rate. Outside, the spray was flying as the flow met the last swells from the passed storm. The surf smashed the beach on either side of the opening and roiled into the air in mid-channel. There would be bluefish and maybe bass there, I thought. I’d have to give it a try later.

Inside Katama Bay the clam flats had taken a real beating. The nice flat next to Chappy had been torn away in part and would be eaten away even further before the opening was closed again. At least a season of clamming would be lost there. Maybe more. Bad luck for me, since I liked to work those flats. But Nature cares nothing for clammers such as me, and I thought that was as it ought to be. I prefer the indifferent universe. The idea of it allows me

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