Estelle Opened Her Tide Book Beneath The Wheelhouse Lamp

I offered Estelle the dry seat and put the kettle on.

"Who asked you to forget?"

"Victor. He said a retired pilot could mistake a light in the rain."

"Could you?"

She gave me a long look.

"Of course. Write that down first."

So I did.

Estelle had been at her sister's house above the waterfront. They had made caldo verde from their Portuguese mother's recipe. Her sister had gone to bed. Estelle had stayed by the window with tea and her tide book.

"I still mark vessel traffic," she said. "Bad habit. Better than arguing with the radio."

She opened the book to a page with six short entries.

At 9:41, she had drawn two lights and a low shape between them. At 9:56, she had written: second lift, yellow deck lamp.

"Why a lift?" I asked.

"The lamp rose, stopped, then settled. Twice. I could see the boom against the shore lights."

"Could you read a name?"

"No. Don't give me a better memory than I have."

I moved my pencil away from her book.

She explained the lights. A working boat's green side light had stayed nearly still, lined up with the edge of an old warehouse roof. A yellow work lamp sat low behind it. The mast light had a dark gap beneath it where the boom crossed.

"Gray Heron has that arrangement," I said.

"So might another boat. Put them beside each other."

We did. I found a photograph from a public bid inspection. It showed Gray Heron's yellow lamp mounted on the crane arm. Another salvage boat in the harbor had its work lamps on the cabin roof.

That narrowed things. It did not settle them.

Estelle had set her watch from her phone before supper. Her sister's doorway faced the same view. I asked her to keep the book intact and write a statement in her own words.

"No help from you?" she asked.

"No help from me."

She smiled for the first time.

The next morning, I stood at her sister's window with a paper chart. Estelle marked the two shore points she had used to judge the boat's place. I drew lines from the window through those points.

The space between them covered the Cedar Mercy.

It could not include my cable line across the channel.

We photographed the view in daylight. I wrote that darkness and rain would reduce what she could see. Then I sent June the chart and asked her to check our work.

Estelle made me keep my first drawing, where I had placed one shore point wrong. We dated the correction. She wanted the record to show how we reached the answer.

"Most people hide the weak parts," June told me by phone.

"Sedge will find them anyway."

"Yes. But now they won't be surprises."

That afternoon, Estelle brought her signed statement to a clerk who witnessed her signature. I made copies of the marked tide-book pages with her permission. The original book stayed with her.

Then I went through my own old survey invoices.

Over six weeks, I had crossed near the wreck seven times on jobs for different customers. Most runs had not been made to study the Cedar Mercy. Still, the outer sonar beam had caught its stern on several passes.

One image showed three raised shapes. A later image showed two.

The next showed one.

I sat back.

A storm could shift mud. Sound could make shadows that fooled the eye. I knew that. But the missing shapes did not seem to return.

I sent June the dates without naming the shapes.

"Can these be compared fairly?" I asked.

"Some can. Some can't. I'll sort them."

While she worked, I asked the harbor clerk for salvage work orders, load tickets, and payment records tied to Gray Heron.

The clerk said copying the first batch would cost $38.

"I'll pay it."

I checked my bank balance after the call. There was enough for rent and the boat payment, with $206 left over. I kept the receipt beside the canceled jobs. Even the cost of asking mattered now.

Three hours later, Nolan called.

"Heard you're asking about my jobs."

"I asked the harbor for its records."

"You need a way back into work. Victor can arrange that."

I opened my notebook and wrote the time.

"What would I have to do?"

"Accept a navigation error. Pay the smaller amount. Let this stop."

"Was that offer put in writing?"

He ended the call.

I wrote his words from memory and marked them as memory. I had not recorded him, and I would not pretend I had.

Just before dark, my storage provider called.

"We've received a request to release and remove several project folders," the woman said.

My hand closed around the pencil.

"From whom?"

"The harbor inspector. He says the harbor owns your archive."