Charlie rescues a derelict adrift on the sea of life:
Edmond Julius Elliott realized his penchant towards the fastidious was contrary to his lifestyle. Not since the last of the Chumash were missionized had anyone actually lived on Morro Bay’s sandspit. Elliott’s choice of residence seemed simple. He enjoyed romping through coastal sage and dune in his God-given nakedness. Only when civility required was he led into the bondage of fiber and cord. The hand-dug pits where he buried his waste were deeper than required by decency. Placed beyond the reach of high water on the harbor side of the spit, Elliott protected watershed and fellow creatures from the contamination of his existence.
Waste was not the only item he buried along the narrow peninsula separating Morro Bay’s harbor from the Pacific. There was also treasure of sorts. Sealed coffee cans stuffed with legally gotten gain, and here and there, lovingly wrapped in burlap, a cache of pint bottles bearing the label of Bellows Partner’s Choice, a cheap but popular blended whiskey.
Elliott had several secrets, most of which he remembered. There was the engineering degree from California State Polytechnic College located twelve miles inland in San Luis Obispo. Like many a transplant from the southern end of the state, he fell painfully in love with the beauty and lifestyle of California’s central coast. So much so that his return to more southern climes put him into a state of depression so acute that it required escape for survival and return for salvation.
Return he did, seeking and finding employment in the survey and laying of pipeline bringing crude petroleum product from California’s hinterlands to seaborne discharge offshore of the north end of Morro Rock. He was also responsible for the design and placement of holding tanks to serve as reservoir between port calls by coastal tanker.
Then came the first in a chain of night terrors; dream-like visions of a future he had made possible. From a gull’s point of view, his beloved coastline revolted him with the sights of the ugly cost of progress. His holding tanks transformed into living warts, sucking all life from the lovely coastal hills blessed with missionary’s mustard and God’s poppy. In nightmare, his pipelines puked their load spoiling dune, poisoning surf, and drowning seabird. Offshore, tankers gushed death over every lifeform in Estero Bay. He had turned the Pacific the color of crude. Ocean’s froth oozed slime like puss from a gangrenous wound. He had become nature’s torturer. He had murdered earth and ocean.
Whiskey kept nightmare at bay for a bit but soon lost its prophylactic effect. Elliott found his only true path to peace of mind was to flee once more. This time he would find a way to bond with nature. He would find a way to escape the tyranny of humanity.
Elliott was never quite sure how he got to the sandspit but that is where he found himself, and that is where he stayed. Alone. For the most part. For though his lifestyle was simple, sustaining it was complex. Elliott had divorced people, but while achieving isolation he could survive only through reliance. He needed a lifeline, a way of receiving provision from what he referred to as the “mainland”. He required the services of a local youth and harbor boy; Charlie Hagglund and his fourteen-foot boat "Bob’s Comet" powered by an Evinrude outboard motor.
Charlie Hagglund provided courier service for Mr. Elliott over a period of several months during spring and summer. A red handkerchief tied to a bamboo pole stuck in the sand served as a beacon that requested his services. Whenever Charlie landed on the spit, Elliott appeared clothed in jeans worn to comfort and a tee shirt that was once white. Elliott was a naturalist, not a pervert.
Groceries and other basic needs Charlie would ferry across the harbor. Whiskey replenishment, however, found Elliott perched on the bow thwart aboard "Bob’s Comet" crossing to the mainland; for while they turned a blind eye to the letter of the law when Charlie provided a written note from a liveaboard customer for a six pack of beer or a carton of cigarettes, embarcadero shopkeepers would not sell the boy whiskey.
Charlie found success as young entrepreneur by minding his own business. He took little notice of and made no comment regarding the lady who was an occasional overnight guest of a liveaboard boat owner. He aided without complaint the sailor whose habit of returning to his boat with sheets to the wind put him in peril. In a seaside village lubricated by gossip he kept his eyes and ears open, but his mouth shut.
Noting the sun’s southern transit Charlie felt fall’s approach with the increasing bite of a northerly breeze. He was not sure if Elliott had spent the previous winter months on the spit. California’s rainy season, with its torrential three-day storms bringing ashore a chilling Pacific wind, could deliver days of misery to anyone without shelter. Charlie decided that this was a case where into another man’s business his nose had to be poked.
“Mister Elliott, where ‘ya going to spend the winter?” he asked.
“Here, I guess,” came the answer. “May have to throw together some sort of shelter, I suppose. Me ‘n the plovers will figure ‘er out.”
“I might have a better idea, sir,” ventured Charlie.
“Now look son, I know ‘ya’s means well ‘n all, but I’m not going to the mainland to suffer salvation in any mission dormitory or church basement. You’re a good lad, Charlie, but leave me be on this.”
Charlie saw the red handkerchief flying from its bamboo staff in the early afternoon of a bright fall day but didn’t come ashore until dusk. As he figured, it was time for Mr. Elliott’s whiskey run. The two figures could barely be seen crossing to the embarcadero with faint glow of Charlie’s homemade running lights leading the way. Loaded for return Charlie headed Bob’s Comet up-channel towards the boat basin.
“Where ‘ya’s headed lad?” asked Elliott.
“Going to catch the tide from up-channel for a better line of approach back to the spit. Safer that way after dark, sir,” Charlie answered, hating the taste of the lie.
Between the Golden Tee Inn and the final turn into the boat basin below the golf course lay a body of water outboard of the boat channel cluttered with the hulks of abandoned boats left to the wrath of decay. Legality proved stronger than rib and plank, keeping these floating but forgotten dreams from the mercy of eviction and salvage by local authorities until ownership could be confirmed. Title search and verification came at a price that neither individual nor agency was willing to pay. Occasionally one such veteran would sink. Removal was then allowed as the hulk became a hazard to navigation.
The flotilla of hulls gathered in an area that shared an epithet common to harbors along the Pacific coast: Fool’s Anchorage.
Charlie reversed course and set the Evinrude to idle, drifting down on a faded gray Hunter hull with the remnants of a turquoise trim. He had an aversion to the choice of turquoise on boat or household. It seemed an unnatural color, even when encased in silver. Backing down he secured the stern line around the Hunter’s rusted after cleat.
“Make her fast forward please Mr. Elliott.”
Not knowing what else to do Elliott complied. Charlie had moored far enough aft to make boarding precarious but possible. He climbed aboard the vessel and offered a helping hand to Mr. Elliott.
“I can make ‘er, boy. I’m not that old and beat up.” True to his word Mr. Elliott brought his body on board. Charlie had gone below into the Hunter’s dark cabin. The scratch of a wooden match was followed by a flare, then a soft glow of a camper’s lantern. Mr. Elliott joined him in the cabin.
Hints of dampness and mold seemed to retreat with the hissing of the lantern. A flannel sleeping bag rolled up in a protective plastic bag sat on one of the built-in bench seats that flanked a wooden planked table. On the table sat a Coleman cookstove.
“You wouldn’t have to stay here all the time, but it would get you out of the weather. I could come pick you up before the storm hits and get you back ashore when it clears up. Please, Mister Elliott. You need a place to get out of the wind and rain.”
“You buy all this gear?”
“No, sir. Belonged to my uncle, Captain Charles Hagglund of the fishing vessel "Azalea". Borrowed it from my Auntie Lillian. Told her I was lending it to a friend in need.”
“You went to a lot of bother to shelter a stranger, boy. Seems rude to deny you the pleasure of a deed done good. How much you want for the rent?”
“No rent, sir. I don’t own the boat. She’s the best of the bunch though. Could probably fix her up if ‘ya had the money and the time. Fairly watertight. Truth be told we’re both trespassing but if ‘ya keep low you should be alright. I’ve blacked out the windows on the shore side. If we keep our comings and goings quiet no one will even know you’re here.”
“I’ll pay passage fare then.”
“Yes sir, if that will make ‘ya happy.”
Winter’s first storm came with little warning rolling sheets of rain across Estero Bay into the harbor blown in by a bone-chilling Pacific gale. Charlie delivered Mr. Elliott to what they had begun to call "Hunter Haven" before the skies opened up. "Bob’s Comet" was not so fortunate. Charlie finally got to his auntie’s house soaked and chilled on the outside but warm with the knowledge that Mr. Elliott, while not pampered, was also not prayed over. Remembering the clink of pint bottles Charlie suspected Mr. Elliott was surviving the storm dry on the outside and warm on the inside.
Early winter storms filled Morro Bay’s Estuary with a flow from abounding creeks that lived mostly dormant lives, hidden by willow and oak in the surrounding watershed. The flooding of hillside water combined with a higher than normal ocean tide and the oncoming pressure of wind-driven surf turned the normally placid harbor into a stirring bowl of waters fresh and salt, mixing the flotsam and jetsam of rancher and farmer, fisherman and would be oyster tycoon. Familiar currents lost their sanity. At ebb, the tug of water fleeing the harbor added stress to mooring lines, especially those old and in disrepair in Fool’s Anchorage.
The pattern of a winter storm on the central California coastline is normally nocturnal, as in Camelot, letting up as morning’s mist rises into a sun-streaked sky. Not so this storm. It raged throughout the night and the following day and into the second night. Morro Bay was rocked with the reports of thunder heralding the blinding flash of lightning, which was a rare occurrence for a storm in these latitudes. Children cried. Cats cowered beneath beds. Charlie Hagglund began to worry.
Charlie tied on an extra lash line to secure his navy life jacket around his chest. Though young, he was not foolhardy enough to take "Bob’s Comet" from the security of the boat basin without wearing a personal flotation device, especially in mid-storm. Water flew from the floppy sides of the old sou’wester he had rescued from his uncle’s gear shed. With wind pushing against him the tied shoelace he had fashioned to replace the worn chin strap threatened strangulation while the flying brim allowed free access to streams of rainwater that blinded him whenever he kept an eye peeled as to course and destination. He rounded White Point and headed towards Fool’s Anchorage and "Hunter Haven" bent on checking the security of the line holding the boat to the anchor buoy. Finding her secure would put worry to rest; if she had been there.
When pushed Charlie could swear at an advanced level for his age. He was swearing now as he sat low in the stern sheets and pushed the Evinrude to full throttle. He followed wind and current as best as possible looking for the looming shadow of a drifting hull. Ahead he saw a faint light swinging in a half arc. It had to be Mr. Elliott signaling for help. Charlie lowered himself to decrease wind resistance and gain speed. With current behind him, he was not taking on any water from ahead.
"Hunter Haven" was drifting towards the north end of the harbor. There she would either crash into the rocks along Embarcadero Road or be caught by current and dragged through channel’s bend, sweeping past buoy number seven, then head for the open sea. Neither result boded well for craft or stowaway. Charlie needed to stop her but there was no way "Bob’s Comet" could match her in size and bulk. He had but one chance to save her. He had to drive her to the beach.
Pulling alongside the drifting boat Charlie checked his location. There had once been a bridge reaching from the mainland to the sandspit for use by Sunday picnickers and clam diggers. The bridge was long gone but skeletal remains in the form of sand sunken pilings still remained high enough above the water to form a barrier between boat and harbor. If Charlie could nudge the boat far enough towards shore to get caught up in the pilings maybe Mr. Elliott could get a line around one of them and bring the boat to safe moorage.
Maybe. If.
Charlie swore some more, took off his life jacket and lashed it to the prow to add mass to his push point. He needed to avoid puncture to the Hunter hull and structural damage to "Bob’s Comet’s" prow. He eased prow against hull then slowly added all the power the Evinrude would muster. The smell of hot oil mixed with gasoline became strong enough to notice before being shanghaied by the storm’s fury. He tried yelling instruction to Mr. Elliott, but his words went the way of the gasoline fumes. He had to hope that Mr. Elliott would catch on to his plan through observation and common sense. Both seemed a long shot.
Charlie felt the drag of a sand bottom forcing them away from the shoreline. He brought the throttle to idle then slammed it to full power to encourage a surge effect to get them back to shore. Slowly they closed stern-first towards the pilings. Lightning flashed beyond Morro Rock. Looking up Charlie could see in silhouette the figure of Mr. Elliott standing, spread-legged but precarious, atop the transom. The lad was amazed by the sight of the man swinging a rope with a lasso loop around his head. He let the rope loose and watched as it hit the side of a piling and slid into the water. Mr. Elliott retrieved the rope, re-fixed the loop and tried again. This time the loop landed atop a piling, then slipped below its crown. The loop was brought tight, then Mr. Elliott dropped to his knees and swiftly secured the line around a stern cleat with a land lubber’s collection of half-hitches. When secure he threw both arms in the air as though signaling a touchdown.
Together they worked the hull further up on to the beach with Charlie giving a shove, Mr. Elliott pulling slack out of the mooring line and re-securing it to the cleat. With a final effort, the Evinrude gave up in despair. Charlie managed to make a line fast to the larger craft. It wasn’t a pretty landing, but they were moored fast to the sandspit.
Sunrise broke through the clouded sky bringing Camelot’s promised calm. It wasn’t long before the harbor patrol boats ventured from their finger docks to check on the security of vessels under their care. The Sixty boat came around the pilings to discover "Bob’s Comet" and "Hunter Haven" beached and secured to the pilings. Charlie and Mr. Elliott were sitting in deck chairs, enjoying the early sun’s warmth, each with a steaming cup of coffee in hand.
“Charlie Hagglund? Everything alright, son?”
“Yes, sir. She got loose in the storm, but we managed to snag her and get her tied up.”
“Hunter hull out of Fool’s Anchorage ain’t she?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Who ‘ya got with ya?”
Standing Mr. Elliott presented himself as though for inspection.
“Edmond Julius Elliott, officer. Cal Poly Engineer and Mustang Rodeo Steer Roping Champion, Class of Fifty-One.”
“Well Charlie, looks like you rescued a derelict. Might have salvage rights you know.”
Mr. Elliott looked askance at the Harbor Patrolman.
“Hell, officer” he proclaimed, placing a hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Young Charlie here didn’t rescue one derelict. He got himself a pair!”
Charlie flushed with a rare blush.
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Reviewed by Elisa Shine
10/20/2025
You bring such a fresh perspective I’d love to see where it leads us.
Another, very well and colorfully written tale of the sea and salvation. Once again, Charlie seems very familiar from the last story that I read from you and the story if not true, seems to be based on true events. In any event Charlie is one helluva entrepreneur at a young age. Can't wait to read more of your stories. But if they are based on true events, I hope you would indicate that. There's nothing wrong with pure fiction, but true life stories often are more interesting than fictional ones.
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Edmond Julius Elliott realized his penchant towards the fastidious was contrary to his lifestyle. Not since the last of the Chumash were missionized had anyone actually lived on Morro Bay’s sandspit. Elliott’s choice of residence seemed simple. He enjoyed romping through coastal sage and dune in his God-given nakedness. Only when civility required was he led into the bondage of fiber and cord. The hand-dug pits where he buried his waste were deeper than required by decency. Placed beyond the reach of high water on the harbor side of the spit, Elliott protected watershed and fellow creatures from the contamination of his existence.
