Carl Howe Hansen
New Chapter
Whereto answering, the sea,
Delaying not, hurrying not,
Whisper’d me through the night, and
very plainly before daybreak,
Lisp’d to me the low and delicious
word death.
Walt Whitman
Leaves of Grass
Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking
Wed. morning Aug. 7, off the coast of Massachusetts
Kendra Petersen’s fingers slid along the folds of skin below the man’s chin, searching and then willing the carotid artery to pulsate with the next beat of his heart.
“Please, please!” she screamed, “Beat, you bastard!”
Her thumb had joined forces with her fingers and she squeezed the fibrous artery tighter, until fear gripped her that no blood could pass. “Give me a chance, please!” Hovering above his bloodstained face, she strained to hear — anything at all. “Shut up!” she said as she lifted her face to the sky, imploring the shrieking wind.
“One … OK, there ya go.” She had not lost her sense of touch. “One, one thousand, two, one thousand,” she counted the pulsations, “come on … three—”
“Shiiit …” She lost her grip as the sailboat dropped off the backside of another wave. When they reached the bottom of the wave trough, the sudden loss of momentum sent her body, along with his, crumpling against a corner of the cockpit.
“Dammit, I need you.” She struggled to dislodge herself from his legs. “Move!”
There was no reaction in his listless face. His weather-beaten skin was wet with a mix of blood and salt water. Beneath the stubble of his beard — it was their third day since they had left Maine — his lackluster color showed only a hint of the trauma he had experienced.
Despite his unconsciousness, she kept talking to maintain her focus. “You’ll have to wait; we’ll never get there if I don’t get control of this damn boat.” She meant for her one-sided conversation to infuse some life, help connect his errant brainwaves, keep his mind amongst the living. “Remember what you told me? ‘Priorities first’ … you’re right.” A surge erupted under the hull and this time she grabbed the base of a winch with one arm, him with the other and held tight.
Above her head, the jumbled mass of sail remained attached to the main boom. Each time the boat lurched, the heavy wooden appendage many times her weight swung freely from one side to the other.
“Now!” She released her protective grip to lasso the boom with a length of rope, which she then yanked taut to the gallows and wrapped on a cleat. While the next wave lifted the boat, she dragged him onto the floor of the cockpit and threw herself on top. With her face pressed against his, she felt some warmth escape from his open mouth. She touched her lips to his ear and whispered, “So, old man, you are still with me.”
The boat leaned way over, paused with a shudder felt throughout the seams of the old wooden schooner and then snapped back to attention. She took advantage of the lull between breaking waves, now regular as clockwork, brushed back a curl of hair from his eye and said, “Dad, you’d better stay alive. I didn’t plan to be out here alone.”
******
Five days earlier, around 2:30 a.m. Friday, Aug. 2.
“Captain! … Captain, there’s a vessel on a collision course!” an agitated voice blared from the intercom awakening Lars Svenson.
Captain Svenson had a reputation within the maritime community for coolness under pressure. Commanding the oil tanker Martinique was the pinnacle of his career — a Dutch- flagged vessel with a Norwegian captain and crew from seven countries. Since the massive tanker was an older single-hulled vessel without many of the safety features mandated by international treaty following the Exxon Valdez disaster, the company had scheduled decommissioning for the following year. Improvements continued — despite the status of the ship’s future — to take advantage of modern computers and navigational aids. Old-school attitude and skepticism still marked the aging captain. The owners boasted that the Martinique could cross an ocean without the help of a human being. Lars Svenson knew better; he still wanted notification any time another vessel entered their collision zone.
“I am on my way,” he said through the fog of sleep as one leg after the other draped over the edge of the bed. The rush of cognition snapped him into action. He shoved his feet into his shoes and then pulled on his shirt while he skipped several steps leading to the bridge.
When he arrived he joined several members of his crew watching the radar screen. An image representing a ship flashed on the screen each time it received a signal. The digital blip indicated a distance of five miles, closing fast on their vessel that was as big as a floating skyscraper.
“Blast the damn horn!” he said to the 1st Mate. “Keep trying to raise them on the radio.”
Five short bursts reverberated throughout the ship and echoed across the water.
“Turn to starboard and give me full power. Their course is steady enough we can leave him in our wake, that son of a bitch … and put that searchlight in his face.” The beam of light penetrated the night in the direction of 11 o’clock.
******
Aboard the fishing trawler Betty Ann, the captain slumped over the steering wheel. Greg was a short, stocky man with close-cropped hair surrounding a bald spot. Years of heavy drinking and poor eating habits had transformed his handsome face, now swollen and red. His heart beat irregularly while he experienced profuse sweating, nausea, and pain that radiated down his left arm.
The crew was asleep, unaware of the drama unfolding above their heads. Greg always took the first shift at the wheel during their passage to Georges Bank. When he fell over he slid down the wheel, rotating it counter-clockwise. He also hit the throttle, pushing it forward, increasing the speed of the vessel. Greg was left-handed, preferring his throttle control on the left side of his steering station. The result of that decision rapidly altered their course as the engines accelerated. Under normal conditions two vessels approaching each other would take evasive action by each steering to starboard, as the Martinique was now attempting. Not Betty Ann; she continued her own sweeping arc to port.
Greg’s heart wound down to a stop as a blinding stream of light illuminated the smoke from his last cigarette. His body relaxed and he rolled onto the floor with an echoing thud.
In order to work in closer proximity to other fishing boats, the collision alarm on their radar was set with less sensitivity. When it finally activated, the piercing sound woke a crewmember. He bolted out of his berth, alerting his mates while he raced to the bridge. When he reached the doorway the dark shape of a ship’s hull was already visible through the windows. The alarm pulsated and a voice with a foreign accent boomed over the radio. He stepped over the body of his captain, reached for the wheel, and instinctively spun it to starboard. The ninety-foot-long, steel-hulled boat pushed on at full throttle.
******
“God damn! What’s he doing?” Capt. Svenson said when he made visual contact with the Betty Ann. He froze in disbelief as it changed direction. If the trawler had maintained its course it would have, at worst, bounced off the Martinique’s hull with a glancing blow. He grabbed the compass binnacle for support and held tight. “Cut all engines! Radio our position … let them know we have been in a collision! Sound all hands to their stations and give me a damage report ASAP… Hold on …!”
The trawler drove directly into their side, an oil tanker carrying 250,000 metric tons of crude oil. The jolt knocked the helmsman out of his seat. Their forward momentum continued dragging the trawler, throwing huge plumes of water into the air. The pressure became too much and the Betty Ann popped out of the hole she had made, rolled over, and then disappeared beneath the surface.
“Send a mayday!” Capt. Svenson shouted. He instinctively donned his slicker, pulled his rubbers over his shoes and stepped into the night. The tanker was already listing toward the impact. When he shined his flashlight over the side he could see the uncontained oil gushing out of a catastrophic hole. The heavier salt water was displacing the crude oil.
It would not take long for the Martinique to join the Betty Ann on the bottom of Massachusetts Bay.
“So my life will end today,” the captain said as the oil-covered seawater washed the deck. He began to recite the Lord’s Prayer, “Fader vår, du somer er I himmelen ….”
******
“… seelonce mayday, seelonce mayday…”
Chris Morrison heard the alert on his VHS radio, only a segment, but it was enough to get his adrenaline flowing. Maritime emergencies on Channel 16 took priority over all radio traffic. He slid the hatch at the forward end of the cockpit open, reached through, turned up the volume and listened.
“…vessel in distress, repeat your position, over…”
Again, he heard a portion of the transmission without an answer. He stood in the cockpit and examined the horizon in all directions. There were ships’ lights everywhere he looked, none close by, and no sign of distress. To avoid the heavy ship traffic in the Gulf of Maine at night, twenty-year-old Chris had risked sailing his small sailboat close to the western limits of Cashes Ledge. He figured none of those big ships would show up out of nowhere from his eastern side — they would stay well clear of the shallows the Ledges represented. He still planned to be safe and stay awake all night while he transited the approaches to Massachusetts Bay on his way to Nantucket.
“Martinique, I have your position at forty-two degrees, eighteen minutes north, and seventy degrees, sixteen minutes east. Is that correct? Over.”
Chris opened the Gulf of Maine/Georges Bank chart under the glow of his red-lensed headlamp and followed the hatch marks until he found the location described on the radio. The incident was located along the designated shipping channel where it doglegged northwest toward its final approach to Boston. It was far enough away that his low-powered VHS radio would never pick up the signal from the ships in distress. The stronger signal he heard must be coming from Coast Guard dispatch on land.
Only a few miles away from the incident the chart revealed the landmass of Cape Cod, curving like death’s messenger, menacingly pointing a finger before it curled back on itself as if it was pulling the next victim toward their fate.
“Sector Boston to the Martinique, you are reporting a collision. How many personnel onboard your vessel? Over.”
Chris was alone and felt vulnerable on his twenty-five foot sailboat. He could only imagine what was happening to his southwest.
“Sector Boston to the Martinique, we had the fishing vessel Betty Ann in your vicinity. Are you reporting a collision with the Betty Ann? Over.”
There was no response. Chris moved into the hatch opening and sat on the top step of the ladder leading to the cabin. He knew the Automatic Identification System would have given the Coast Guard the locations of all commercial traffic in the area. Not him; he was recreational and not required to have an AIS unit. Besides, there was no way he could afford one.
“Sector Boston to the Martinique, Sector Boston to the Martinique, do you copy? Over.”
He listened as the Coast Guard made the requisite number of attempts to make contact.
“Sector Boston to the Betty Ann …”
Again, there was no response. He turned the tuner back to Automatic Channel Search and overheard other conversations on several channels, so many it was hard to discern their importance. His concern had to begin with the status of his own exposed sailboat on the open ocean in the middle of the night. He left the radio in confusion after he turned the volume down and returned to the cockpit. The dark expanse of water around his bobbing boat was empty, but he had to keep listening to the night. Adrenaline and coffee would keep him going until daylight returned. He looped the strap of his binoculars around his neck and continued to scan the darkness.
******
6:00 A.M.
“Mr. President, at 2:35 this morning we received a distress call from the oil tanker Martinique on approach to Boston. She had been in a collision with another vessel while carrying 1.75 million barrels of crude oil … and she was sinking.” In the White House ready room, an audible gasp of disbelief interrupted Coast Guard Captain Giles.
“If you look at the map here, you can see the area I’m talking about.” He pointed with a red laser at a map that showed the horseshoe-shaped coastline surrounding Massachusetts Bay. Cape Ann was at the northern end and opposite, at the tip of Cape Cod, was Provincetown.
Capt. Giles’s hands shook, causing the red dot to bounce around the map. “Rescue craft were dispatched and no ships or crews have been found. I’m afraid to say this but we may be witnessing an environmental disaster of epic proportions. But to understand why, I’m going to let Jim Mathews of the National Weather Service explain … Jim.”
“Thanks, Capt. Giles,” Jim’s voice quivered. “We are experiencing unfortunate atmospheric and oceanic conditions in the area of the spill. You can see the location here. These arrows represent the normal seasonal flow of the currents … southerly to a southeast direction. The Maine Coastal Current is just east of the spill, but it doesn’t have any dramatic seasonal shift.” Jim flipped the map over to compare the summer and winter charts. “In the middle of the spill and north of Provincetown is the Stellwagen Bank … right here.” Jim traced the faint outlines printed on the chart.
“Look, is it possible to get to the point?” General Gonzales, a member of the Joint Chiefs of Staff pushed for a conclusion. “Do we really need all this peripheral information?”
“With all due respect, sir,” Jim said. “I’ll try not to make the explanation as complicated as the conditions.”
“Jim, we’re all a little bit anxious this morning,” the President tried to re-focus the presentation. “How is the current affecting the spill?”
“Well, Mr. President, normally the Maine Current heads east of the Stellwagen Bank and, if the spill had hitched a ride it, too, would have headed away from the coast, out to sea, and been diluted over time. Unfortunately, a strong low-pressure system is off the coast of New England and its counterclockwise rotation is creating an aggressive northeast wind, pushing the surface current directly into the Bay. We believe that within twenty-four to thirty-six hours, the bulk of the oil will find itself trapped within Cape Cod Bay.” Jim Mathews concluded by tracing a dramatic arc with his pointer along the coast of Cape Cod.
Silence pervaded the room as everyone waited for the President to respond. However, Senator Kelley, the senior senator from Massachusetts, spoke first. “We are in a world of hurt if that spill gets caught up inside Cape Cod Bay. The economy of Massachusetts and the region is going to be devastated. Can you imagine a black sludge washed up on those shores? For God’s sake, it’s the height of tourist season.”
Senator Kelley’s disregard for protocol piqued another participant’s interest. As a member of the Presidential Scientific Advisory Council participating in the meeting that morning, Dr. Samuel Petersen was highly regarded for his advice. During a career that spanned more than sixty years, energy had been his avocation but nuclear power had been his ticket to the big show. The Council members were not part of the cabinet; instead, they were advisors, called in whenever the President felt that a situation represented a threat. Natural and man-made disasters called for a complete analysis, so that the President could be in a position of informed authority when it came time to make decisions.
Samuel’s past ties to coastal Maine made him aware of the regional consequences and he sympathized with Senator Kelley. He knew damage would occur to the Massachusetts economy, but he also considered another issue; in anticipation of the next election year, the news media was closely monitoring public opinion. Rumors circulated that Sen. Kelley was the leading contender to challenge an incumbent President struggling with unfavorable poll numbers.
President Demming would not miss that point either. Criticism had weakened the previous President when he led a lackluster response to an oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico. The Massachusetts oil spill posed a huge economic and environmental challenge, and one could expect the President to take quick action demonstrating leadership to boost his numbers in his adversary’s own backyard.
“Gentlemen, I need you to lay out every possible scenario. What is our first line of defense?” The President rose and began to pace, addressing the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs. “Admiral Miller, I need you to arrange for all military personnel in the region to be put on immediate alert.”
Samuel considered his son Peter’s research, but could not bring himself to raise the subject. In scientific circles, the younger Dr. Petersen had a reputation for successfully demonstrating a process using an engineered bacterial strain to digest crude oil. He was proud of his son’s success — then again, he remained skeptical of its ultimate value. It seemed too good to be true, especially in light of the predominant by-product — oxygen and hydrogen — simply, water.
“Dr. Petersen,” the President said as he sat down, interrupting Samuel’s thoughts. “You are probably thinking that we deserve this. Nonetheless, I would still like to hear what you recommend.”
“Mr. President, oil spills are outside my area of expertise, but it was just a matter of time before something like this happened.”
“No recommendation?” The President asked.
“Time is not on our side, sir. We should call in the real experts.” Samuel now hoped the attention would focus on someone else.
Sen. Kelley jumped in again. “You’re absolutely right, Dr. Petersen. Why don’t you call your son?”
“Senator Kelley, he may have demonstrated the potential, but it is a far cry from real world conditions,” Samuel said, recalling previous tension with the aggressive senator.
“Dr. Petersen, if you know something that could help,” the President said, “I don’t care if it’s just a Band-Aid. This is the time to demonstrate to the public that we are doing everything possible. What are we talking about here?”
Samuel tried not to lecture; he forced himself to be as brief as possible. “My son engineered a bacterial strain that consumes oil, specifically to be used against oil spills. However, I do not believe it has been adequately tested.”
“That’s right … it was your son ….” The President asked, “It eats oil?”
“Well, not exactly. He discovered an enzyme when combined with bacteria that already exists in crude oil ...” Samuel found himself lecturing. “All right, simply put, it eats oil.”
The President sat up with both hands on the edge of the table, “Then it raises the question; is it possible it could be used on this spill?”
“There is not enough time. It would take months to formulate, then manufacture the bacteria and its delivery system. Then there is the problem with transportation.”
The President sat back again. By now all formality was gone. Outside the circle of chairs pulled up to the table, the hum of huddled conversations between the aides filled the room.
“Mr. President, with all due respect, I have to disagree with Dr. Petersen.” Senator Kelley stood as he spoke. “A company in Texas named Eradicoil has been manufacturing their own version of Peter’s bacteria under the name EO7. They’ve been stockpiling it and already tested its delivery with a converted air-refueling tanker.”
“I remember the program. It was designed to provide leverage against Iran.” The President leaned forward in his chair. “Right?”
“Yes, Sir,” Sen. Kelley said, continuing to act as if he was making a dramatic disclosure. “Eradicoil has a contract with the military to use Dr. Petersen’s technology to develop a weapon of fantastic potential. Simply by introducing EO7, an enemy’s oil resources will be destroyed. The program’s been kept from the public, but my committee has been updated and I’m told it’s ready to go.” He looked down at Samuel. “I’m surprised Dr. Petersen. Didn’t you know?” Then to the President, he said, “But keeping this weapon a secret is far less important than the disaster heading toward my home. The people of Massachusetts are going to be pretty upset.”
The President took an audible breath and sat up quickly. “Gentlemen, look, it’s an opportunity to do the right thing. The American people won’t forgive us if we don’t do everything within our power to prevent this disaster.” Looking at Samuel he asked, “Is there any reason for us not to move forward?”
“Mr. President, we have to be careful. This is not a war. We are talking about delivering an experimental weapon onto a sensitive natural resource. If we do the ‘right thing’, we may be risking long-term consequences. There has not been the kind of testing that prudence would suggest.” Samuel felt sorry that he had not been more enthusiastic about his own son’s work.
“Excuse me, Mr. President … at this point we don’t need to wait for tests.” Sen. Johnson, a member of the Council from California spoke out. “Eradicoil was already forced to go public after their first test in Mexico, except some people became concerned that the oil deliberately spilled onto a salt marsh would leach into their fresh water supply. My constituents in Southern California are perceptive people, especially when it comes to water. A TV crew from San Diego went down there and asked some tough questions, but Eradicoil provided samples that showed no residual oil after the experiment’s conclusion. How a private company got permission to run an experiment over the border raised concerns. It’s odd, though,” he glanced at Senator Kelley, “the story didn’t go anywhere. I think the science was just too difficult to understand, or maybe they just couldn’t believe it was real. It’s real, all right.”
“I still cannot condone the release of something that has not been extensively tested and the results published for others to review. I am not blind to what happens secretly; I am just not comfortable. However, it seems like the rest of you know more than I do. So, Mr. President, what do you want me to do?” Samuel already knew what would be decided. He had heard arguments before about deploying experimental weapons, and ever since then he tried to be the voice of caution. On that early morning the foundation of his life’s work and the relationship with his family was about to be tested … again.
******
By 1900, Danish immigration to America had peaked when Samuel’s father Olaf Padersen arrived at Ellis Island — as the first step to his new life. He carried a bag over his shoulder with a few belongings, along with a heavy wooden chest that contained the tools of his trade. The chest had been part of his apprenticeship with a master cabinetmaker in Denmark.
Pader Padersen, or Pader, son of Pader was the traditional form of his Danish name. A portion of the name inscribed with paint on his tool chest was gone, worn away during his time at sea. The immigration official asked him to identify himself — one of hundreds of men who arrived every day and, they assumed, barely spoke English. His family had nicknamed him Olaf in honor of his grandfather. Out of habit he characteristically responded, “Olaf Padersen,” and pointed at his tool chest for clarification.
The official shook his head and spelled it out as he wrote on the immigration form, “O-l-a-f P-e-t-e-r-s-e-n.”
“No! It is P-a-d, sir, not P-e-t. See ….” Olaf was on his knees, rubbing the worn spot with his spit.
“Next!” The officer motioned for the next man despite Olaf’s protestations.
Resigned to the spelling on his new ID card, Olaf Petersen carried his heavy chest through the gate and headed to the New York waterfront. There, he booked the first available passage to Portland, Maine, where a train completed his journey farther up the coast to Rockland. He had found work as a ship’s carpenter and within days he was on board his first voyage with an American captain, his tool chest beneath his bunk.
Olaf was more than six-feet tall with strikingly blue eyes. His golden hair was longer than normal; occasionally he tied it back to keep it out of his eyes when he worked. Freckles and pre-mature creases from many years of exposure to the elements covered his face framed by a square jaw. Olaf knew fishing and the way of the boat. His steady demeanor and work ethic made him a great shipmate and much in demand.
He was determined to escape the life of rooming houses, so he purchased a small waterfront lot in Tenants Harbor. Olaf planned to send to Denmark for a wife, but he was determined to have a home completed before subjecting a woman to the harsh environment of coastal Maine. Several years of work at sea had passed before he had saved enough money to send to his family in Denmark. His house was finished and now he would leave them with the task of finding him a wife.
******
Anika was the youngest of seven children living on a small farm in rural Jutland. She had turned seventeen that May and prospects were not great for an energetic young woman with ambition to reach beyond the confines of a family farm. Anika had all of the looks of a typical Dane. In public she kept her long reddish-blond hair in braids wrapped close to her head. Her youthful freckles were fading, replaced by a tone darkened by the sun. She had a small button nose centered on a face that gave way to dimples when she smiled. Her chin was sharp and merged with a well-defined jaw. Within days of receiving the long-distance proposal from Olaf, Anika was saying goodbye to a family she would never see again. Carrying a single bag, a Bible and Danish/English dictionary, she traveled to the port of Esbjerg and booked passage to England and onward to America.
Anika arrived while Olaf was at sea and for many months while learning English lived with the Lutheran pastor in Thomaston. After Olaf returned, three days would pass before he got enough courage to borrow a wagon to travel the ten miles to meet her.
Olaf’s boots fell hard against the wooden porch, alerting Anika to peek through the curtain. She removed her linen apron and tried to brush the wrinkles out of her dress. She moved toward the entry hall, pausing long enough to see her reflection in a mirror and practice her smile. She inched her way through the dining room and into the front hall as a soft knock rattled the glass pane of the door. Another knock prompted her to move quicker and reach for the latch. She pulled the door inward and held it firm as if it were a shield of protection. Enough courage arose for her to look out from behind the door to see a man, the man she would marry.
“I am here to see Anika,” Olaf said.
“I am Anika. Olaf?”
He hesitated, examining her face as she emerged from behind the door. “Ummm,” almost breaking into Danish he answered, “Yes, I am Olaf Petersen.” He held out a small parcel wrapped in paper. “I brought you something. Is the pastor home?” Olaf stood just outside the door, his hat in his other hand.
Anika reached with both hands for the package held by Olaf’s much larger hand. “He has gone to the … to the … church, but his wife is here.”
“I will wait on the porch and ask permission to enter their home.” Olaf still held the parcel. When he released his grip, his hand brushed the tip of her fingers and she felt the coarseness of his skin for the first time. He stepped back, made his way to a bench and sat down as she closed and latched the door. Looking out across the field, he would have seen the Saint George River below as it made its way to Muscongus Bay and the Atlantic Ocean beyond.
Anika’s first impression of Olaf was that of an old man, much like her father, and that made her nervous. Anika went from room to room looking for the pastor’s wife, afraid to call aloud and reveal her excitement.
“Anika, what are you looking for?”
“Mrs. Christianson, he is here waiting on the porch. What do I do?”
“My word, Anika, you frightened me. Well, child, we go down and invite him in.”
“He will not come in until you give him,” she searched for the word, “permission. I am afraid I have … scared him.”
“For goodness sake, Anika. The man has waited a very long time for this day. I know Olaf and he will not give up easily. Go down and sit with him. I will be right along.”
Their meeting was formal and short with the pastor’s wife acting as chaperone. Olaf left with a promise to return in two weeks for the wedding. The tissue-wrapped parcel he had given Anika contained the material for a wedding dress, a gold ring and a handful of coral beads he had collected during his time at sea. She would spend her time in the coming weeks handcrafting a dress using the beads as accents.
The evening after the wedding, Anika cooked a special dinner for two in his well-organized kitchen. In short-order, she had learned that she was married to a fastidious, traditionally minded man. He treated her with a gentle politeness steeped in the traditions of propriety, yet Olaf displayed in the details of his house that he knew exactly what a woman like Anika would cherish. She began to think that love could be possible after all.
Olaf was smoking his pipe by the fire when Anika sneaked out of the room. He found her in the loft standing naked by the bed. A candle cast her ghostly image on the opposite wall. Olaf gathered his courage to approach her as she lingered. Towering above her, he reached out and took her forearm, stroking it like a piece of oil-rubbed cherry. While Olaf held her arm, her body shuddered and goose bumps emerged at the roots of the hair standing up like sea grass in a tidal pool. His efforts carried his hands to her face and he kissed her on the forehead. Placing one hand under the back of her head, the other at the small of her back, he positioned her on the bed, silently continuing the exploration. Seemingly, with admiration and a sense of discovery, he worked his fingers around her body, driving Anika ever closer to the total abandonment of all her fears. She didn’t hold out for long.
Pader Olaf Petersen was born in 1917 while Olaf was at sea. The sinking of The Housatonic led the U.S. to break off diplomatic ties with Germany. Before long, most of the world was at war. Olaf and Anika made every effort to continue as usual in the peaceful village of Tenants Harbor.
Olaf had a dream of sailing the ocean in his own boat. Over time, he built a groundway and cradle along the shore below his house. An oak keel and ribs emerged, forming the shape of a working vessel with a large cargo hold and sparse accommodations. The heavy wooden schooner floated on the water in front of the house while Olaf worked on the final details.
He never fought in the war; he met his obligations by working in the maritime trade. Although he was gone for longer periods aboard commercial freighters, Olaf managed to complete his boatbuilding project before the war ended. The focus of his life to that point was his dream for freedom, his desire for independence — it was his birthright, his destiny. The Danes called the concept skæbne, but they were American now. So, together, Olaf and Anika christened their boat Destiny.
Samuel Neils Petersen was born in 1921 with his father by Anika’s side. Olaf left her and the boys one last time aboard a freighter and, like so many men of the sea, never returned. During a storm, the weight of the shifting cargo that he was trying to secure crushed him. The crew buried him at sea.
Jack Hillman, Olaf’s close friend and shipmate, arrived at the house on a foggy spring morning on a small horse-drawn cart. As he unloaded a heavy wooden toolbox, Anika and the boys came out to meet him. Pader recognized Olaf’s tool chest and rubbed his hands across the top, tracing the remnants of his father’s name with his tiny finger. Jack had breakfast and with unusually few words, said he was “giving up the sea,” and “heading west to seek my fortune.” Then he disappeared in the fog. A Hedebo style tablecloth made by Anika covered the chest placed in the center of the room between two armchairs. Hearts and flowers decorated the tablecloth with Olaf, Anika, Pader, and Samuel’s names and important dates embroidered around the border. It stayed as a reminder of the father and husband that, for a while, had made the family complete.
During their friendship Jack Hillman had introduced Olaf and Anika to his spinster aunt, Thankful, and her friend Faithful. Both women had been teachers at a school for women in Boston. They had spent their working life together and retired to a cottage in Martinsville, just up the Saint George peninsula from Tenants Harbor. Hearing of Anika’s situation and needing help at their own home, Faithful and Thankful offered Anika work as a housekeeper. She took the job with the condition that the boys could accompany her.
Faithful and Thankful did everything they could to spoil the boys and soon became their surrogate Aunts. Education was a routine of daily life. Every day but Sunday the boys were instructed in liberal arts and the sciences and, after lunch, released to the world outside where they explored with wonderment and unbridled curiosity. By his sixteenth birthday, Pader passed his exams and left for the town of Brunswick, Maine and Bowdoin College with all expenses paid by the “Aunts.” Samuel would follow two years later at the age of fourteen, not because he was smarter, he just missed his brother.
Anika was content to stay at home to work in her gardens, dig for clams, pick the wild blueberries, and preserve everything she could “just in case.” In the summer, the boys became experts in the handling of Destiny and explored Penobscot Bay to the fullest extent possible.
Anika never re-married and she died quickly and without complaint of a mysterious disease when the boys were away at school. She often expressed her contentment with the knowledge that Pader and Samuel would thrive in a world where change had left her behind.
Their protracted absences from home lengthened as the 1940s ushered in the threat of another worldwide war. Pader was the first to enlist after Pearl Harbor. His education and a shortage of doctors made his service valuable. He went to the Philippines and ended up on Bataan before the army surrendered the island to the Japanese. Samuel had become intrigued in the late 1930’s by nuclear fission research and, in 1942, before he completed his doctorate, Dr. Robert Oppenheimer enlisted him to work on the Manhattan Project.
After the conclusion of the war, Pader and Samuel boarded Destiny for an extended trip along the coast of Maine and, perhaps, beyond. On a late afternoon with daylight waning, Pader watched to the southwest as a thunderstorm approached. Calling Samuel up from below, they discussed their options and decided to make their way to a familiar island.
Approaching Pine Island was particularly hazardous due to the rock outcroppings that lined the shore. However, between the horseshoe-shaped rock ledges facing west was a harbor that would protect a ship from the worst that nature could spawn.
Despite the perceived hazards, the Petersen brothers sailed Destiny through and found safety. They waited out the storm after dropping anchor in the shallow harbor. Two days later, Pader joined Samuel on a hike around the island. Standing on the shore of a fresh-water pond teeming with wildlife, Pader announced that he would never leave “this garden of Eden.” He decided that Destiny had arrived at what was his “destiny.” Using the money from the sale of their mother’s house and military separation pay, they purchased the entire 140-acre island.
A return to an overactive postwar society after enduring three horrific years as a prisoner of the Japanese was not on Pader’s agenda. He suffered wounds from his imprisonment, but endured.
Samuel could still see the mainland six miles away and rest in the knowledge that an alternative was nearby, if he ever tired of a solitary life. He experienced a guilty conscience after his involvement in The Manhattan Project. The urgency of the atomic bomb had led many scientists to ignore the obvious results out of fear for a protracted war and millions of casualties. He would still spend the rest of his life with a sense of regret for using the sacrificial deaths at Hiroshima and Nagasaki as a demonstration of nuclear energy’s unrestrained power.
Together the brothers built a granite foundation and fireplace using scraps from an abandoned quarry. A wooden structure emerged from timbers hewn from the pine that had flourished in a gentle valley protected on both sides by prominent ridges. To help in all their work, Pader and Samuel used the carefully maintained tools stored in their father’s wooden tool chest.
Several acres of cleared land created a pasture for the livestock shipped over on the infrequent-but-reassuring trips Samuel made to the mainland. Tall fences of intertwined split logs surrounded large vegetable gardens filled with varieties capable of surviving the harsh weather. The deer still managed to gain entry but, with the absence of any natural predators, Pader and Samuel found no issue with the occasional slaughter of a trespasser. In fact, the deer seemed to flourish, finding a balance between nature and the increasing presence of man.
The war had changed the course of their lives, but their education now served them well in their sustainable living experiment — hidden from prying eyes and academia. Samuel would honor his brother’s request for seclusion but he could not avoid the temptation for intellectual pursuits found back in the real world. He would eventually leave, finish his doctorate and teach at Harvard. Yet, every summer he would return — in time with his wife Annie and sons Samuel Neils and Peter Olaf, to experience a way of life he believed was important to preserve. Samuel’s children would grow up with an innate sense that the island was their secret.
Destiny made the journey to Pine Island possible. A diesel auxiliary was the only change Samuel made to the authenticity of the vessel. He had made this compromise to facilitate the arrival and departure from the protected island, much to the disdain of his older brother. He assured Pader that a diesel engine would run on renewable vegetable oil as Rudolf Diesel had proved in 1892.
The transport of a new milk cow was the final proof for the engine argument. When a sudden squall arrived, Samuel rapidly reefed the sails, but headway was threatened and the vessel started drifting toward the rocks. It was only after he brought the engine to life and headway restored that the vessel inched its way safely into the harbor. Pader watched from land and saw the possibility of the cow going down with the ship. Before Samuel had tied Destiny to the pier, Pader was yelling from shore.
“Is the cow OK, Samuel?”
“She is fine … and I am OK, too, thanks for asking. Didn’t you see we almost lost Destiny?”
“Hell, I saw the whole thing. You can swim, but the cow … I was worried.”
“I guess it was a good thing I installed that engine. See if I ever risk my life for you or a damn cow again!”
Pader’s childhood instruction by Anika served him well as he pursued soil modifications to support their agricultural efforts. Washed and composted seaweed provided the best hope to augment the rocky acidic soil. When its useful life was over, everything organic found its way into one of many compost piles. They turned the soil and planted seeds, harvesting and storing the bounty in wooden kegs, burlap bags, and glass jars with beeswax seals. They went to bed at nightfall and rose with morning light. Except for a few well-used but modern tools, the first glimpse of the homestead would not reveal a specific place in time. Additionally lacking was the indication of anything that would mark the use of fossil fuels — nothing made from or using petroleum.
Pader’s eccentricity was attributed to his brutal imprisonment, beginning with the Bataan Death March. Island life was idyllic in comparison. Pader was not shy about his disdain for the premise that mankind was inherently good. He had witnessed the worst side of man. Organized religion would endure his most virulent attacks. Pader believed, as did Marx, that it was no more than a “drug for the masses.” His hope lay in an eventual dramatic re-direction of man’s priorities towards those he demonstrated on the island. That hope would involve hardships for the world to endure, but he managed to justify that suffering with images of a lasting peace and cooperation, eventually saving the planet from self-destruction.
Samuel was not as complex as his brother was, but still divided his life into two distinct worlds. Island life with Pader provided a peaceful place for study and reflection. Samuel’s other and very public side became that of sage. He had secured his prominence with predictions of nuclear proliferation and the peaceful conversion from an energy infrastructure dependent on coal and oil, into nuclear energy. His seminal work predicted the geo-political imbalance of oil production dominated by radical governments at odds with American society.
Samuel taught his boys everything he could in the short time he was on the island. The boys especially admired the way he handled Destiny. Demands for his time often kept him away, and even longer when he began teaching nuclear physics at Georgetown University. Annie remained and developed a passion for the education of their two special boys.
Pader grew old prematurely on his island laboratory. He taught the boys about the balance of nature and man, the pitfalls of industrialization, the process of intellectualizing, and the need for justification in every effort. The boys developed patience with their uncle’s eccentricities. Providing balance to the conflicts that arose between outside influence and the island’s intransigent lifestyle became Annie’s job. The boys were in their teens when it became obvious to all that Pader might not survive a winter alone on his beloved island. No one but Pader knew the answer.
On a cool summer evening, Pader and Samuel walked along the well-worn deer path that snaked through the wild roses and the low-bush blueberries. At the house, Annie fussed about the kitchen while young Samuel, whom everyone called Neils, hovered over a scale model of a schooner with a “thousand pieces.” Peter, with an “e-t” in deference to the times, read quietly in his favorite window seat. When the older brothers reached that point on the island that afforded the widest panorama, Pader started to talk.
“Samuel, I’m glad we could get away to chat. I don’t think I would have survived this long if you hadn’t helped me.”
Samuel said, “You know, Pader, I would not change a thing—”
Pader cleared his throat. He knew what he was going to say and wanted to keep going.
Nevertheless, Samuel kept speaking. “Look, whatever you might think, you have made a real difference. I may have expressed some misgivings about some of the things you taught the boys, but I still appreciate what you have meant to them.”
“It’s as much what they meant to me,” Pader interjected. “I discovered hope when I realized those boys could make a difference in the world I will eventually leave behind. I first created this alternative in isolation, because I didn’t think I needed anybody else to prove my point. Then the boys came along and I discovered that I had another chance … well, really two chances, to give my life meaning.” Pader’s war wounds had left his gut in perpetual turmoil and he was feeling the pain intensify. The doctors had said his wounds limited his life span — that there was no help. He would suffer the pain for as long as he lived.
“What are you telling me, Pader?” Samuel prepared himself for one of Pader’s lectures.
“It’s really quite simple.” Pader pointed east and said, “When I look out across the open water in that direction I can watch for hours and see no proof that we were ever here. On the other hand, I look toward the coast and inevitably things come into view … a lobster boat, an airplane … things that remind me of what I left behind … people going about their lives. I didn’t want to be caught up in that confusion so I chose to look east, toward the way it is without the influence of men: the open water and the rhythm of nature.”
Samuel got comfortable and let Pader continue.
“The other day I was sitting up here looking for the sails of Destiny. I knew you would be arriving. You may not believe me but I do like watching for you. I have come to terms with that interruption, so I came up here to sit and wonder about what new challenge would arrive with you, something as simple as a question from one of the boys. While I was sitting right here,” he repeatedly pointed to where they were standing, “I noticed a seal pup at the water’s edge caught in the remains of a net. I didn’t know if it was alive, so I climbed down and cut the net off its neck and poured water over its body with my cupped hands.” He held his hands to demonstrate his technique. “I thought I could feel some life, but didn’t know what to do. Samuel, I actually had the urge to pray … I looked around for another seal, a mother that might be worried. I decided that the life at my feet had ceased to exist as far as the rest of the world was concerned.
“Boy, was I wrong. Look down there. Can you see it?” He stood at the edge of a large rock and pointed down the steep slope. “Nature has already shared that unexpected bounty with the crabs and flies and I suspect a bird or two have pecked away at the flesh.
“The rules of the natural world are at play. The four classical elements, the building blocks of life — earth, air, fire, and water — establish the balance in the natural order of life. The question remains: what happens next?
“Last night Neils asked me about God and I couldn’t answer. Like a coward, I told him to go ask Annie, but he doesn’t have to be told anything. All he has to do is sit right here, be quiet, watch the world go by, and he will figure it all out on his own terms.
“This planet will continue to evolve at its own pace. It is up to us to let nature take her course with as little interference as possible. Whatever I have done here will mean nothing without your help. Eventually, it will be up to the boys to teach others what we have learned here. Then, perhaps, the earth and human civilization will have a chance to achieve the balance that nature demands. But ultimately, we will all just be food for the crabs ....”
Samuel thought it was a depressing sentiment and couldn’t quite wrap his arms around Pader’s thoughts. His first idea was to offer a kind word or affirmation. Regretfully, he chose to ignore the implications of Pader’s words and said, “We should be getting back. The light is fading.”
They made their way down the path. In the distance they could see the warm glow of the lanterns through the windows of the wood and stone house. Above them, the flashing lights of an airliner were visible as the evening stars began their own trek across the darkening sky.
Early the next morning Pader walked down to the beach, removed most of his clothes, tied a rope to his ankle, and waded out into the harbor that had sheltered his life. As usual, he had considered his every move. The water temperature would induce hypothermia and weaken his body, but distract his mind from the terror of drowning. He forced himself to tread water while the consequences took over. Within minutes, as an uncontrollable shivering gave way to the shutdown of his extremities, his brain signaled his body to preserve the flow of blood to his vital organs. His mind began to wander to places of comfort and wonderment and he slipped below the surface, his body buoyant but heavy. The diving reflex caused him to make attempts at self-preservation, before the aspiration of salt water and the duration of his submersion prompted the permanency of death. The rope would allow his retrieval, as he did not want his disappearance to remain a mystery. A note would direct the recovery and offer an explanation — especially to the boys.
To my dear family, Samuel, Annie, Neils and Peter
My body is worn out. I find myself unable to perform some of the most basic physical tasks that this place requires. The thought of leaving our beloved Pine Island is more than I can bear, so I chose to stay. To be a burden to anyone is beyond my comprehension. I hoped to last long enough to see that you boys were ready to take on all the challenges that life offers. You have given me the greatest gift of all – hope for the future. My family has made me a very happy man simply by letting me pursue my dream. Now, this is all yours to preserve, but my hope is that Neils and Peter will choose to help keep my dream alive. I am in the harbor; just follow the rope.
Forever yours in spirit…