Uncharted Shores

More spooky sailing stories....

Article by Shawn Payment

It was late September. Although it was the peak of hurricane season, I had decided to go sailing for a few days on the Outer Banks of North Carolina. There were currently no storms brewing in the Atlantic, the temperature was in the low 80s, and the breeze blowing at a steady 8-10 knots. Perfect!

I’d spent the previous night anchored just offshore of the Point Lookout Lighthouse at the southern end of Core Sound. After a lazy morning spent sipping coffee and nibbling on stale doughnuts, I set out to the north with hopes of reaching Ocracoke by sundown. The breeze was light but steady out of the southwest which I concluded would make for a relaxing reach up the sound. I was sailing my little 17-foot gaff rigged catboat, beamy and comfortable. Only a few wispy clouds were present to accent the otherwise clear blue skies. Boat traffic was light—the occasional fishing boat went speeding by—I would offer a cordial wave as they passed. The day proceeded without incident, frequently dodging pound nets, and the occasional “death ferry” carrying tourists across the sound to the Cape Lookout National Seashore.

Unfortunalely, my late start had put me a bit behind schedule. I’d spent most of the day making a meager 3-4 knots and as the sun began to dip toward the horizon, it became clear I was not likely to reach Ocracoke in daylight.

This wasn’t of great concern since there was no place I particularly needed to be at any particular time. The wind had also begun to veer and was now coming out of the northeast. The temperature began to drop as the sun slipped below the horizon and the bright day transformed to shades of grey. I sailed on, making occasional tacks as I continued north.

As the temperature dropped, wisps of fog began to sweep across the water. A gibbous moon rose surrounded by swirling mist. I sailed on. The last bits of twilight departed and the sky turned to black. A few stars began to emerge. I checked my GPS. Still about 6-7 miles to Ocracoke—at least two more hours at my current pace.

I studied the tiny GPS screen, looking for a sheltered cove or friendly bit of shoreline where I might drop the hook for the night. Besides, I was getting hungry and a packet of freeze-dried chicken and dumplings was calling my name.

Unexpectedly, my eyes detected a jagged shape in the moonlight gloom several hundred yards ahead. I checked my GPS, there was nothing on the chart but open water. I slacked my sail and proceeded slowly forward at bare steerageway. Within moments it became apparent that I was approaching a sandy bank, rising no more than 3 feet above water. Standing a few yards inshore was a black, jagged tree trunk, its desiccated branches reaching into the murky darkness. I ghosted towards the shore, dropping my anchor in shallow water, just yards from the beach. I dropped and flaked the sail, tying it securely for the night.

Although I could have easily made dinner aboard, my curiosity about this mysterious “uncharted” island got the best of me. It was still fairly early and I wasn’t tired. I donned my headlamp, tossed my camp stove, dinner packet, water bottles, GPS, and a few other odds and ends into a small pack and slipped over the side into the warm, soupy water. After the short wade to shore, I found myself on a sandy beach littered with shells. Ahead of me stood the misshapen tree with several large logs scattered around its base. Taking a seat on one of the logs, I checked my GPS again. Nope, there was no charted land where I was located. According to the chart, I should have been treading water 8-10 feet deep.

I scratched my head and pondered. Was the GPS wrong? Was I off course? Had a previous hurricane dramatically changed the shorelines so recently that the GPS charts had yet to be updated? My stomach rumbled. I could think more about it while I ate my dinner. Firing up the camp stove, I poured in the contents of one of my water bottles, and shortly thereafter dumped the boiling water into my pouch of chicken and dumplings. While I waited for my dinner to re-hydrate, I started to boil a second pot of water in order to make a cup of tea.

Suddenly, an unexpected noise caught my attention. A soft, crunching sound could be heard a short way down the beach. I perked my ears and peered into the foggy darkness. The crunching continued. It was coming closer. Finally, the mist parted and a human shape appeared. As my feeble headlamp pierced though murk, the first thing I saw was a pair of high leather boots. Above them emerged a long, leather jacket, heavily weathered. Finally a face became visible. A haggard bearded face topped by a wide brimmed black hat.

“Ahoy!” I said. “It’s kind of late for a beach walk, isn’t it?”

The figure continued to approach, offering only a grunt of acknowledgement. Eventually, he stepped fully into the glow of my headlamp, then slumped into a seated position on another log, facing me in the moonlit gloom. My first thought was that Halloween was still over a month away. It was a bit early for “Pirate Cos-play”.

“Uhhh, Welcome,” I said. Then, not sure how to proceed, I asked: “Would you like a cup of tea?”

The stranger stared at me intensely, then gave a slow nod. I rummaged in my pack and pulled out my only cup. I supposed that I could drink my tea directly out of my cook pot. Oh well, we Southerners (even transplants like myself) pride ourselves on our hospitality.

Moments later, the pot began its steamy whistle and I poured half the water into the cup, dropped in a tea bag, then dropped a second bag into the pot. The stranger sat there in silence, breathing in low, shuddering breaths. I handed the cup across to the stranger who accepted it with gnarled, mottled hands. He took a sip. The smallest hint of a smile curled his thin, chapped lips.

“Ahh,” he said, almost inaudibly. “It has been a long time since I’ve had something warm in my belly.”

I began to wonder if my visitor was some insane, homeless, hermit who was somehow squatting on the sparingly occupied sea islands.

After a few more quiet minutes, the stranger grumbled: “I know why you’re here.”

“What?” I said. “Why I’m here? I don’t even really know why I’m here. Where exactly am I, by the way?”

The stranger emitted another low grumble. “You’re here for my treasure.”

“Treasure? What treasure?” I looked around. “Am I on T.V.?”

“The treasure,” he said, standing and drawing what appeared to be a very realistic cutlass from his belt. “Scalawags like you have been searching for it for ages!”

I set down my tea and stood as well. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m just camping for the night. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

“That’s what they all say,” growled the stranger. “But here you are. And my treasure is right over there,” he said, pointing up the beach with his cutlass. “Thirty paces west, fifteen paces north, then 25 paces northeast at the base of a mossy rock.”

I shook my head. “Why would you tell a perfect stranger where your treasure is buried?” I asked.

The stranger stepped forward and placed his left hand on my shoulder. “Because dead men tell no tales”, he growled, and with that, he shoved his cutlass neatly between my left side ribs. My eyes snapped wide, as I stumbled back a few steps on wobbly legs. The stranger continued to press forward, backing me toward the water’s edge. I stared into his parchment-like face as his lips curled into a sneer exposing his blackened teeth.

A searing pain coursed though my side. Finally, he pulled back the cutlass and with a brutal push, shoved me back into the water. I could see bubbles rise toward the obscured moon as I slowly sank below the surface. Then… blackness.

I awoke with a start. I was at home, in my own comfy bed. My spouse snored quietly beside me. A burning pain twisted through my left side.

“Damn,” I whispered. “I knew that I shouldn’t have eaten that spicy burrito so close to bedtime.”

Epilogue
It was late October. The air was beginning to cool. Fall was upon us. It wasn’t certain how many more months of good sailing weather remained. Still, today had been a good day. A brisk east wind for most of the day, tapering as the sun dipped toward the flat horizon.

Darkness fell quickly. I sailed on. I thought that I could almost see the faint lights of Ocracoke far in the distance. I couldn’t help but smile. Then, as if almost on cue, a bank of fog swept across the water obscuring the distant lights. I slacked the sail and peered into the night, brightly lit by a silvery full moon.

Suddenly, a shape appeared. A jagged, black tree, rising from a sandy mound a few hundred yards ahead. I reached down and opened the starboard lazarette. Reaching inside, I removed a gleaming cutlass and a small shovel.

I had a sneaking suspicion that it was going to be an interesting night. •SCA•

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It’s October, so time for a few spooky sailing stories! Tell us about your scary moments afloat. Was it a thick fog, an encounter with a passing ship at night, a reckless jet skier, or just a sinking feeling? Send your horror stories—fictional or not— (any length) to josh@smallcraftadvisor.com and we’ll share some of our favorites with readers. —Eds