Behind the wheel, Gabriel navigates through Saltspray Cove’s streets.
Outside my window, the town has shed its daytime chaos. Tourists have retreated to their rentals or are settled in restaurants offering early dinner, leaving behind a stillness that makes it easy to breathe and to fully appreciate the picture-perfect image of this town.
I take in the glass storefronts, clean windows mirroring the sunset, freshly painted facades, and the flower boxes overflowing with colorful blooms. Even the sidewalks look polished, as if someone scrubs them.
Neither of us speaks as we near the Clampton harbor, the less perfect side of town.
The town transforms with each block we drive by. Designer boutiques turn into hardware stores with faded signs, and the polished storefronts are replaced by older houses that look truly lived in, not just set up for a photoshoot. I notice chipped paint, a bent fence here and there. Some driveways have old cars, weathered boats, bikes, and lawn chairs instead of shiny SUVs.
I smell the harbor before I see it. The air shifts gradually, thickening as it picks up the scents of salt, fish, and diesel instead of the sweet smell of sunscreen and expensive perfume.
As Gabriel eventually slows down, through my open window I listen to ropes slapping rhythmically against hulls and seagullscrying out over the water, circling the air above the mess of boats, too many to count. Some are white and gleaming and others have peeling paint and are green with moss. Some names can hardly be read anymore. A radio crackles with a voice too distorted to understand, so I give up trying to.
This part of town doesn’t try to impress anyone. Its focus is survival.
Gabriel parks near the edge of a lot covered in oil stains.
“We’re looking for theBlue Hammock,” I tell him as we step out of the car and walk around the harbor that’s more alive than the rest of Saltspray Cove at this hour.
Fishermen and women with lined and sunburned faces pass us, their boots thudding against weathered planks. We greet the ones who offer a kind smile and focus on scanning the boats around us.
Not that one. Not that one either. We count six and none of them is the boat we are looking for.
“Maybe he got the name wrong,” Gabriel murmurs.
“No, he didn’t. Mark was very clear.”
So, we keep walking.
By the time we spot it, after at least fifteen wrong boats, my patience has almost worn thin and I’m on the verge of giving up. The sun is starting to sink lower now, throwing amber light across the water.
TheBlue Hammockis exactly as Mark described. It’s small and crooked and looks like it’s about to sink. The paint is also chipped and the name scrawled unevenly along the side looks like a child painted it years ago and no one ever bothered to fix it.
A man with a wiry gray beard is sitting on the deck, hunched forward. He’s in his late sixties, or seventies, maybe, and like most men we came across, his skin has been darkened by decades of sun and salt.
A cigarette is glowing faintly between his fingers while he watches us approach without moving a muscle.
“Private property,” he calls out when we get close, his voice rough as gravel. “Turn around.”
“Are you Saul Daniels?” I ask when we’re standing right in front of his boat.
He stares at us, then flicks the cigarette overboard. “Who’s asking?”
“My name is Judy Ellis. This is Gabriel.” I turn to point at my husband, who hangs back while I step closer, letting my sandals click on the floating dock, which rocks gently beneath me. If this guy wants to scare me off, he’ll have to try harder. “Mark Jacobs, our handyman, said you know more about the sea than anyone around here. We were hoping you might help us.”
He studies us in silence, weighing something invisible, but I can see I stroked his ego with what I said. Finally, he jerks his chin. “Up. Both of you.”
The boat rocks beneath my feet as we climb aboard, the deck smelling of fish, rust, and old water. Saul leads us below into a cramped cabin that feels more like a bunker than a home.
“How may I help you?” he asks.
“We’re looking for our daughter. Sadie Sutton. She was in town six months ago, at Saltspray Cove Youth Camp.”
He points to two stained cushions at a built-in table cluttered with cigarette butts, fishing gear, and an old, dog-eared boating magazine. “I remember the story,” he says. “Girl went missing, possibly drowned. I was part of the search team, in fact.”
“You were?” Gabriel and I both ask at the same time as we sit down.
“I certainly was.” A hint of pride shows on his face. “The coast guard called for volunteers. I’ve fished these waters for years. I know the currents. I know how the tide changes when the wind shifts.”
