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  Praise for BEYOND BEAUPORT

  “Masciarelli’s Beyond Beauport is a fast-moving read that keeps you on edge page after page! Sailing through Shannon Clarke’s adventures and lucid dreams returned me to Irving Johnson’s brigantine Yankee voyages! This tale of sea rovers, treasure, and adventure pulls you into this epic narrative.”

  —Ron Gilson, author of An Island No More

  “Full of deeply researched nautical tradition and seafaring lore, Beyond Beauport is about one woman’s quest to catch a second wind in life by letting her dreams fill her sails. If you like adventure, Caribbean seas and family intrigue, you’ll surely enjoy this tale.”

  —Katherine A. Sherbrooke, author of Fill the Sky

  “James Masciarelli’s mastery of plot, suspense, pacing, dialogue and story belies any sense that Beyond Beauport is his first novel. The history that frames this gripping narrative is impeccable. Embarking on this adventure with such appealing characters offers a pleasure that only the most well-crafted novels can provide.”

  —Peter Anastas, author of At the Cut

  “Loaded to the scuppers with history and intrigue, Beyond Beauport fastens a shackle to the heartstrings of the pirate in all of us, then pulls us along in its powerful riptide of adventure! Bravo!”

  —Jim Tarantino, Gloucester doryman

  “When our intrepid heroes, Shannon Clarke and her uncle Paddy, sail off in search of pirate treasure in the mangrove islets off southwest Florida, they fall prey to a vicious syndicate of international smugglers. James Masciarelli has written a riveting and irresistible novel of adventure and intrigue on the high seas. Beyond Beauport will remind you of why you started reading stories in the first place: to be carried away to a world more vivid and, in this case, more frightening than the one you’re living in. Paddy and Shannon have room for one more mate on the Second Wind, and you have permission to board. You might want to keep that life jacket close by—the waters are a little rough ahead.”

  —John Dufresne, author of I Don’t Like Where This Is Going

  “James Masciarelli has crafted a unique contribution to American letters, an adventure saga that is sweeping in scope yet intensely personal. Beyond Beauport resonates intrigue from its first pages, and it does not disappoint in the delivery of a narrative that moves quickly through crests and valleys creating curiosity, suspense and fulfillment. But just as compelling is the personal journey of its main persona. Shannon Clarke may well emerge as one of the more memorable, fully formed and complex characters in modern literature. Her progressive levels of self-awareness and identity wed a compelling adventure to the universal processes of self-discovery. Masciarelli writes of time, place and history, and in the process has woven a lasting work that speaks to discovery that is both epic in scope and deeply personal.”

  —Greg Fields, author of Arc of the Comet

  “From the working waterfront to the high seas, Beyond Beauport captures the nautical adventures of a Gloucester woman looking to catch a second wind. Shannon has salt in her veins and ancestors in her head as she sails the eastern seaboard, searching for the treasure of the fearless 18th-century pirate Anne Bonny, and hoping to find herself in the process. Full of history, geography, maritime life, storms, and recipes, Masciarelli has created an exciting tale of today’s woman at one with the sea.”

  —JoeAnn Hart, author of Float

  Beyond Beauport

  by James Masciarelli

  © Copyright 2018 James Masciarelli

  ISBN 978-1-63393-657-7

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or any other—except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the prior written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. All the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The names, incidents, dialogue, and opinions expressed are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Published by

  210 60th Street

  Virginia Beach, VA 23451

  800-435-4811

  www.koehlerbooks.com

  For Judi,

  Fortress of my heart

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  INTRODUCTION

  GLOUCESTER SCHOONER FESTIVAL

  SEPTEMBER BREEZE

  DRIFTING ON THE ROCKS

  STORMY MONDAY

  PIRATE BLOOD

  BLOODLINES

  SEA ROVERS

  SEA CAPTAIN LEGACY

  A GOLDEN DRAGON

  LUCID

  THE NOVICE

  SAILOR MAN

  KEY WEST

  KINGSTON, JAMAICA

  CARIBBEAN COWBOY

  RATLINES

  FISHING FOR CLARITY

  GINGERNUT

  CHARLESTON

  DÉJÀ VU

  BARFIELD BAY

  LOVERS’ KEY

  ANNE’S BOOTY

  FINDERS KEEPERS

  SALACIA

  SEA TRIALS

  VIGILANCE

  BRIGGY

  PORT ROYAL WEDDING

  HOMEPORT

  DOGTOWN

  HALFWAY ROCK

  BOOK DISCUSSION GUIDE

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  LEARN MORE

  INTRODUCTION

  Beauport is a real place, named by French explorer Samuel de Champlain. He was a man of incalculable talent—navigator, cartographer, ethnologist, soldier, diplomat, artist, and writer. Born to a non-noble family of sea captains, Champlain was a robust man with good sea legs and insatiable appetite for adventure.

  During his 1606 voyage to the Atlantic shores of North America, he was thirty-two and had returned to an irresistible island cape with high granite bluffs, rugged coastline, inlets, deep forest, and sandy beaches. He entered a southwest-facing harbor with good navigable waters and protected anchorage, populated with friendly native tribes in summer garb. Champlain noted the surrounding landscapes of diverse hardwood trees and cultivated vegetables, and drew a detailed chart of the beautiful port, giving it the memorable name Le Beau Port.

  Champlain’s cartography and descriptions inspired the arrival of English settlers in North America. An expedition by the Dorchester Company, chartered by King James I in 1623, established a settlement of the beautiful port. That special place, located north of Boston on Cape Ann, is Gloucester, Massachusetts—America’s oldest seaport.

  Beyond Beauport takes place between the Labor Day weekend Gloucester schooner festivals of 2012 and 2013 but harkens back to the Golden Age of Piracy, when a woman set out to sea.

  GLOUCESTER SCHOONER FESTIVAL

  Shannon Clarke sniffed the cool briny air and winced. Another Cape Ann summer gone forever. She was in a stealthy blue mood and decided to fight back with a bit of mischief.

  It was Labor Day weekend, and summer’s last hurrah in Gloucester was marked by its annual Schooner Festival. Shannon giggled like a schoolgirl at her planned hijinks, even though she, at forty-six, was old enough to have two children in their twenties. No matter. She felt youthful and daring again, and recruited her three best friends as accomplices.

  Marcy and Gael joined her to drag sea kayaks across a small cove on Rocky Neck to the water’s edge. Standing with their paddles set in wet sand like tall spears, they gazed beyond tiny Ten Pound Island and its lighthouse in mid-harbor, to the horizon where the massive granite Dog Bar Breakwater guarded Gloucester’s deepwater port. The sleek local schooner Vega sat in strategic position to welcome arriving historic vessels. By nightfall, visiting sailors would gather in taverns and bars as they had for more than 300 years.

  Shannon drew strength from her troupe of women friends, who rowed competitively for years in pilot gig boats and kayaks. Her brawny Sicilian pal, Marcy, was a no-nonsense registered nurse who never spared criticism when deserved. Shannon and Marcy shared teenage years as single moms in the same tough neighborhood. Their friend, Gael, a laugh-at-life Irish comrade, was a dockmaster and winter marine mechanic at her father’s boat basin. Shannon worked there to ready and store boats in spring and fall.

  Shannon bumped Gael with her elbow. “Where is Allegra?”

  “On her way from the gym.”

  Marcy shrugged.

  “We don’t do late,” Shannon said, and marched back to fetch Allegra’s red kayak from the jumble of skiffs, paddleboards, and rowing shells tethered to iron rings on a granite wall that framed the narrow path to the street. She set Allegra’s kayak next to her green one and nudged it with her foot to space it with the rest at the waterline.

  Shannon had been like a big sister to Allegra when the girl got sideways with parents, teachers, and a married cop. At thirty-six, Allegra worked days at a garden center—by night, as a sassy bartender with uncanny ability to attract males.

  Shannon’s attention returned to the Vega as she pulled her red mane back with a blue-green stretchy neck scarf that matched her eyes. She respected the local boat captains who still made a life in Gloucester. The reserved but gracious Captain Bill Davis of the Vega was no exception. These were family men who loved the sea, men you could count on.

  “What’s up?” asked Allegra, bounding toward them in vibrant blue sports tights, with her blond hair swinging in a ponytail.

  Shannon waited to answer, and cleared her throat. “We race around the red buoy by the paint factory, then out to Ten Po
und Island.”

  “Not much of a contest,” Allegra said.

  Shannon raised her hand. “I propose a biathlon.”

  “What?” Allegra asked.

  “After we paddle to Ten Pound, we swim to the Vega. First one to climb up the anchor chain and stand on deck wins.”

  “That’s dicey,” Gael said. “Never done it.”

  “None of us have,” Shannon said.

  Marcy adjusted her black thermal riptide top. “Should we?”

  Allegra rubbed her hands together. “I like it. What are the stakes?”

  Shannon stretched out her arms, rolled her wrists, and yawned. “Ten bucks each for the kitty. First place takes the cash.”

  Gael gave a sardonic glare. “You took all the prizes on my boat during July 4th weekend. You won ‘First-fish,’ ‘Most-fish,’ and ‘Biggest-fish.’”

  Shannon bit her lip with a half-smile. “Nice keepers.”

  “You rubbed it in all summer,” Allegra said.

  Shannon opened her palms. “Hey, if I don’t win today, I make us dinner.”

  They agreed.

  The friendly rivals paddled in a convoy of brightly-colored kayaks around lobster pot markers and rocking vessels at their moorings. Allegra stroked fast to take the lead, with Gael flanking her. Ten minutes into the race, Allegra and Gael were first and second to make the turn at the big red buoy near the old paint factory slouching on its rotted pilings.

  Youth was winning—Allegra and Gael kept a frantic, splashy pace. Shannon and Marcy stroked long, smooth and steady, with tight turns around the buoy. Onshore headwinds bashed them all with spray over choppy waves as they punched their way toward the stout lighthouse on Ten Pound.

  Marcy’s strength and Shannon’s paddling technique got them within three kayak lengths of Gael and Allegra. The hundred-foot schooner American Eagle crossed their way, forcing them to navigate left through its wake. Allegra was first to the island but miscalculated and shoved out of her kayak too soon. Knocked over by a wave, she scrambled in hip-high water to pull her drifting kayak up on the gravelly beach. Gael had beached hard, sprinted to the far side of the island and dove ahead for the Vega. The rest followed suit.

  Boisterous currents made for an arduous 200-yard swim to the Vega. Shannon and Marcy stroked ten yards behind Allegra. Shannon, only five feet tall and the shortest of the bunch, swam like a trophy fish. With her indifference to water temperatures and preference for green bathing suits, some still called her by her childhood nickname, “Mermaid.”

  Male friends on the working waterfront affectionately called the four women “Sea-Tramps.” Third-generation-plus daughters of fishing families commanded respect in Gloucester, especially from boat captains. Without a nickname, you were a nobody.

  All four approached within thirty yards of the Vega. Shannon kicked into a sprint, and Marcy used her power and reach in steady strokes like a large, dark sea creature with braids of jet-black hair. Shannon and Marcy closed in to make a churning pack on the port side of the Vega, whose bow bobbed on the waves. Cheers rose from the far, starboard side of the vessel, and cannon salutes thundered.

  A young boy, alone on Vega’s deck, watched the women fight for holds on the vessel’s undulating anchor chain. The boy swung his arms and shouted, but the wind stole his words.

  Gael was first to scramble up a few feet on the thick, slick, mossy chain. To climb aboard a tall, sleek schooner from under its flared bow was no trivial pursuit. Gael’s hands were strong and the race now hers to lose.

  At the waterline, Allegra timed her climb as the Vega dipped in the waves. With the upswing boost of the bow, she made three fast pulls up the anchor chain, grabbed Gael’s ankle and clambered over her. Allegra’s foot landed on Gael’s wrist. Gael shrieked and fell into the water. Shannon muscled up the chain and swung over to grab the rigging under the bow. She looked down. Thankfully, Gael was okay, and Marcy had dropped back into the water to help.

  The sole witness, Boy-on-deck, cheered.

  Allegra reached for a trailing rope but slipped several links down the anchor chain. Shannon swung her leg up from the head rig, without success, to reach the deck of the vessel.

  The boy yelled, “Over here. Swimmers are boarding.” Passengers turned their attention to the improbable event with mouths agape. A woman reached for the boy. In a motherly tone, she said, “Stand back, Robert. Give them some room.”

  Fueled with adrenaline, Shannon pulled herself up the rigging with Allegra by her side, using knots as steps. Shannon swung her leg up with enough force to maneuver over the gunwale. Both women flopped onto the deck. Allegra was first to spring to her feet and raise her hands in victory. Shannon straightened up beside her, expressionless.

  Allegra shifted in her stance.

  Shannon reached out to shake Allegra’s hand. “Congrats, I make dinner.”

  “I’ll bring champagne,” Allegra said.

  The boy stepped forward. “Wow—better than WrestleMania.” He glanced back to his mother, and then looked up to Shannon. “Hi, I’m Bobby.” With his face beginning to redden, he added, “I’m from Lexington, here for my birthday. I’m ten.”

  “Happy birthday, young man. I’m Shannon. This is my friend, Allegra. Let’s see, a good Glosta nickname for an able seaman like you would be ‘Wobby.’”

  “Wobby, definitely,” said Allegra.

  “I like that,” he said, throwing his shoulders back. He stared at the playful dolphin tattoos on Shannon’s arms. “I love dolphins, Miss Shannon. They’re really smart.”

  “Wicked smart, Wobby.”

  He smiled with a major overbite.

  A crewmember tossed flotation devices down to Marcy and Gael. He motioned for the boy to help lower a rope ladder. Gael scaled up the anchor chain without a slip. Marcy gave a hearty laugh and climbed up the rope ladder instead.

  In a few moments, the four swimmers stood on deck wrapped in large towels, surrounded by crew and guests chatting about the dare.

  The boy basked in their attentions. Vega’s guests, including a Gloucester Daily Times photographer, took photos of smiling Wobby amid the tattooed Sea-Tramps. He held a round flotation device marked Vega tight to his chest and stood proud as a soldier in front of Marcy with her big hands on his shoulders.

  Shannon stood to the boy’s side with a Cheshire Cat smile.

  Flinty-eyed Captain Bill Davis was not amused. “What now, Shannon?”

  “We swim back to Ten Pound.”

  “Nobody dives off this vessel,” Captain Davis said. “We finish our sail and take you women to the harbormaster’s office. Do you have a clue, the freakin’ paperwork for unauthorized boarding, Shannon?”

  “Sorry, Bill . . . won’t happen again.”

  Gael congratulated Allegra on the win with a slow crushing handshake. Allegra groaned.

  Marcy snugged her hand behind Allegra’s neck with faces close, and sneered. “That was foul. Be glad nobody got hurt.”

  Allegra shrugged. “Let’s not get all swamp-ass.”

  Captain Davis stroked his beard, covered a smile, and called to a crewmember, “Get these invaders some hot tea.”

  The Vega headed back into port. The passengers waved to the harbormaster, who motored past them in festival tradition to welcome each inbound schooner and sailing vessel with pineapples and fresh baked loaves of semolina bread from the local Italian bakery.

  Captain Davis used marine radio to contact the harbormaster to meet later. After his guests disembarked, Davis detained the swimmers with a bit of scolding and spiced rum.

  Later, Jack, the harbormaster, silently reviewed the details of the incident while the infamous four sat in suspense. With large forearms folded over his barrel chest, he said, “I’ve known your families for years. This stunt in the middle of a field of vessels and coasties showed little respect or concern for safety. Swimming one hundred feet or more offshore in a non-scheduled, unregulated swim event is a finable offense. Considering today’s activity in the harbor, it should be double. Captain Davis can take the illegal, unannounced boarding further.”

  The women apologized—and flirted. Gael teased out her long black hair and summed it up: “You have the whole world out here to worry about, Jack, and the world needs good men like you.”