The Krew

Chapter 1

THE BEGINNING

THE CHARLESTON HERALD,

CHARLESTON, S.C.

MONDAY, NOVEMBER 12, 1934

SHIP OF DEATH RUNS AGROUND - Mr. Josiah Block, age sixty, night watchman at Fort Sumner, was the first to perceive the ship of death. The wooden hulled ketch was outside Charleston Harbor under partial sail at 5:30 AM according to Mr. Block, when he saw it make its first run toward the mouth of the harbor.

Upon nearing the harbor’s opening with the wind full behind it, the boat made a sudden swing about, into the wind. The main sail dumped its air and flapped violently, shivering the vessel. Mr. Block heard the thunderous clap of the sheet from his observation point at the fort. After being buffeted by the wind for a short while, the boat maneuvered around, took air back into its sail and began to tack out to sea. According to Mr. Block the boat repeated this scene twice more before his shift ended at 7:00 AM. At that time he pointed out the boat’s strange behavior to his arriving supervisor, Mr. Monroe Kent, who notified the Coast Guard. By 9:00 AM the strange acting craft had attracted a sizable crowd of onlookers, visitors to the fort and its workers. They were witnesses to an additional strange scene.

The Coast Guard had dispatched a cutter to hail the yacht and give assistance if needed. As the cutter approached, the ketch made another of its mad dashes towards the harbor mouth. The cutter increased speed and turned to pursue and then went dead in the water. The ketch healed about and began to tack back out to sea, staying as distant from the cutter as possible.

A local tug was dispatched to help the now drifting Coast Guard cutter. At 10:45 AM a towline was secured between the two vessels and the powerless cutter began its homeward trip. All the while the maniacal acting ketch stood off from the scene, watching. Later in the shipyard it was determined that the Coast Guard cutter had broken its propeller shaft on some unknown object.

After more false attempts by the bizarre craft at entering the harbor the shifting winds sent it dashing southward toward Folly Island.

Mr. John Steward, 47 years old, of Folly Beach was present when the ketch ran ashore on Folly Island. Mr. Steward, a surf fisherman, saw the boat heading for the beach under a full main sail. Determining that it must run aground near his position Mr. Steward backed a safe distance away from the shore and waited.

The ketch raced toward the beach. Mr. Steward said he kept waiting for whoever was aboard to lower sail or turn about, but this never happened. The ketch drove through the surf and smashed onto the beach with a terrible grinding noise. Mr. Steward was sure the craft had ripped its keel out in that moment. He raced to the beached craft and boarded her to offer those on board his assistance.

He described to us the scene on and below deck: A dead man hung from the main mast, a rope entwined about his neck. The corpse’s hands were untied; its clothes tattered by the elements. The deck looked as though at some recent time it had been washed in blood. Mr. Steward, showing the bravery common to these regions, descended into the forward cabin where he discovered the nude, blood drenched bodies of two young men tumbled together in one of the bunks.

Despite the gruesome scene, Mr. Steward continued his search through the boat to its rear cabin. Here he was undone. On the floor, in the center of the cabin was the unclothed body of a young woman. She had been shot in each breast. A .45 caliber, automatic pistol lay between her legs. Apparently the pistol had been fired several times into her face.

Mr. Steward fled to Folly Beach where he notified the police. Mr. Steward steadfastly maintains that no one left the boat either on its approach to the shore or after its grounding. The police have determined from the yacht’s log that her name is THE KREW. The names of the dead have not yet been released.

Chapter 2

FINAL VOYAGE

I found her in the Charleston Daily’s classified ads. The Krew I mean. Maria I found later. Everything happened so fast. I have trouble remembering most.

It was during spring finals, the class, (Euclidean Geometry as a Philosophy of Logic) mostly juniors, was working on their tests while I worked on my tenure and the want ads. I was looking through the boats for sale section like I always use to do when, bam, there it was. FOR SALE: Fifty-six foot ketch. Must see to believe! Must sell!! Del’s Marina, 637-2290. It was a Folly Island number.

It was just too good to be true. If they weren’t asking an arm and a leg for the boat, it was just what I wanted. My big dream back then was to sail around the world solo, ala Sir Francis Chichester. His Gipsy Moth IV was 53 feet. This ketch would be perfect.

I could hardly wait to get out of class and make that call. But the educator facade could not be broken.

Folding the paper backward, then in two, I laid it down on the desk and circled the ad several times around with my grading pen. When the bell ending the semester went off I stood up and said, All right, turn in your papers and get the hell out of here. I paused a second and added, And have a good summer.

Some of the students groaned because they weren’t finished but most everyone was glad to get out of that class. It was a bit dry for most tastes.

As they passed out the door they dropped their tests onto the desk. One student stood around until the rest had cleared out.

Sharon Simmons was always last to leave. Five foot-two, eyes of blue, gitchy, gitchy, gitchy-goo and all that. Really though, she was a very sweet girl. She transferred out of Charleston after that semester.

Professor Kensett, she started as she handed her paper to me, If you need any help grading tests this weekend give me a call. I’m free anytime. Sharon helped me grade a lot of papers that year. She was quite invaluable to me then.

I acknowledged the offer as I rushed her on out of the room. I wanted to get to the student union and call about the ketch.

I got the classroom locked and ran across campus. Only one of the batteries of five phones in the Union was busy; some kid talking to his mother. I dialed the marina’s number and waited in a sweat from my run across campus while the phone rang and rang. It seemed to ring for an hour. I was not going to give up. I wanted that boat.

Del’s Marina, a voice finally answered. Del Williams speakin’. What can I do for you?

Mr. Williams, my name’s Bill Kensett and I’m calling about the ad you have in the paper concerning the ketch for sale. Is it still available?

Sure is, several folks have called ‘bout it though. Williams sounded old.

Could I come on down now and take a look at her right now? I sounded like a kid at the toy store. I hated to be that way because it would cost me money in the long run, but I was excited.

Well son, Williams said, I was just closin’ up. Those other folks aren’t as hot as you to see The Krew. Could you be down here first thing in the morning?

Yes sir, I sure can. What time and where?

I’ll be early son, seven-thirty okay?

That’ll be great sir, I answered.

Well then, the pier’s just north of Folly Beach, got a big, red lettered sign at the gate. You shouldn’t be able to miss it.

Gotch ya. Seven-thirty, north of Folly Beach. Thank you very much Mr. Williams. See you then.

You’re welcome very much, he answered just before he hung up.

I hate that old joke. I have never seen anything funny in it. I hung up the phone and went through one of the food lines. I got a cup of black coffee and a honey bun and started working my way through the central tables to the window seats. I wanted to calm down and fantasize about sailing around the world.

Sprawled out at one of the tables was Jeff Walters. One of my colleagues in the math department, short, thin haired, about my age, 32, Jeff was a fellow who was easy to dislike. I tried to pass by as though I had not seen him.

He saw me, sat up and called over, Hey, Bill!

I stopped. Hi Jim.

Guy, what are you up to tonight? Jean and I are having a little semester’s over party. And you, and a date of your choice, are cordially invited. Starts at eight; can you make it?

Yea, sure I can make it. It sounds great. I’ll see you at eight. Thanks for asking me. At that moment I would have told him anything to get away. I just wanted to sit down, be excited about the boat and drink my coffee before it got cold. I smiled and continued on toward the windows.

You know where we are don’t you? Jeff called after me.

Sure I do, I answered over my shoulder. Jean is a nice woman. She should have held out for someone better than Jeff.

After wolfing down the honey bun I sipped on the remainder of the coffee and stared out the window. I don’t smoke much but I do like to relax with a pipe. I prefer a twelve-inch clay. Clay pipes are a bit 18th century-ish but they are the only way to do tobacco. The longer ones are too fragile to carry around so I use the short, straight clays. Even they break easily though. I run through as many as six a month if I’m not careful. They do have the advantage of being inexpensive if you buy them by the case as I do. Leaning back in the chair I was pulling on the pipe, holding my coffee cup in my off hand, day dreaming about circumnavigating the globe when Sharon sat down next to me.

Hello Professor Kensett, she was nervous, her voice cracked as she spoke.

Hello Sharon. School’s out now so please call me Bill.

All right, Bill.

She sat there with a hangdog look; her eyes never once rose to mine. With her hands resting in her lap she looked very vulnerable and quite pretty. Finally I woke up to my position as a gentleman and a scholar and asked her if she wanted anything to eat or drink. Of course she said no and again the conversation tried to die, not that it had really gotten started. Then I did something I didn't normally do.

I’ve been invited to a semester’s out party tonight. Would you like to go with me? We wouldn’t have to stay long if you don’t want too.

Her face popped up all bright eyed with yes written from ear to ear. I’d love to go. What time does it start?

I tried to ignore her immense enthusiasm as I looked into her smiling blue eyes and answered, It starts at eight and I could pick you up around seven forty-five. It’s over at Jeff Walters’ and that’s not far from where you live.

I had taken Sharon home several times before when she helped with my grading, that’s why I knew where she lived. All those times she had helped me she never once asked for a break on her grades. I respected that. And I had never made a pass. Strictly business.

I’ll be ready, Sharon answered blushing. She hopped out of her chair and ran to the exit. Jesus, was she excited; and over me.

I shook myself loose from the coffee cup and headed for home.

Chapter 3

It was 7:47 that evening when I pulled up outside of Sharon’s house, an older duplex, three/quarter red brick, with a nice yard. I believe the owner, a widow, lived next door. It was a quiet neighborhood in one of the older tract housing areas of Charleston near the college. Sharon’s family must have had a little money because she lived there without a roommate.

I hadn’t thought to tell Sharon not to get too dressed. Jean and Jeff’s parties were never very formal. I was wearing a sport coat and tie only to keep appearances up.

The front porch light was on when I pulled up at the curb. Before I could cut the Mustang's engine, out bounced Sharon in a neat, burgundy colored suit. Underneath the jacket she wore a white, lacy blouse with a