The Dauntless

By S. I. Rocco

I knew nothing of boats and even less of the deep, glittering waters of Bar Harbor, Maine.  Yet as I reflect on that August at sea some thirty years ago, I do not recall even a trace of fear. I  remember the eight-hour car ride, the furthest I had ever been from our small town in the  Berkshires. As we continued northeast along the Penobscot Bay, moving through thick trees and  hilly terrain, my excitement grew with each flashing glimpse of dark blues and greens. I had  never seen the ocean. Soon I would be immersed in that water and soon I would learn its ways.  

I remember the power of the currents when we launched off into Frenchman Bay. It was  my best friend Daniel, Daniel’s older brother Samuel, Marco, and myself. Marco, the boys’  father, was also the principal of our small school. He played the guitar and sang for the  community each Friday afternoon, told us stories of his adventures at sea, and listened deeply to  our questions. Marco’s confidence in a decision to travel somehow made anything possible—it  was a look and a tone, something children recognize instinctively, a quality of voice that lineages  of educators carry. And that was why two weeks in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, on a  wooden sailboat without a motor, did not frighten me as it perhaps would now. 

The Dauntless, with its dark green panels, mahogany mast, and immense white sails,  carried whispers and stories on its deck. One could almost hear the laughter locked between the  old boards. That magnificent forty-foot sloop had traveled and knew the channels and secret  currents of the jagged Maine coastline. Though it was narrow, The Dauntless felt equipped for  any waters and its timeless wood accentuated Marco’s calm silence in the morning. This was the  family boat and it seemed to hold Marco’s favorite tales.

The Bar Harbor coastline faded into the distance and a cold wind formed as Frenchman  Bay transitioned into Mt. Desert Narrows and the Gulf of Maine. The sleeping cabin had two low  bunk beds and we rocked with the waves through our many nights, always alert to sound in case  the anchor dragged, or a boat came too close.  

There was a power in Marco’s silence that I knew needed to remain unbothered. When  the water’s rhythm would shift at sunrise, I would climb up the short ladder, smile at Marco, and  make myself invisible by drawing out maps of where we had been. In those early morning hours,  a furious storm could almost be heard in his reading and writing, and it was unlike anything I had  ever witnessed—there was genius in it, a focus that he passed on to his sons. Daniel, my best  friend, could touch anything and master it. He learned carpentry one summer and built an  elaborate tree fort where he would compose music and draw for hours. Samuel, after only a few  months of travel, would return fluent in new languages.  

As we sailed the cold North Atlantic waters, I remember a few things: gaining confidence  with the tying of intricate knots, learning how to read the navigational maps, and the sunrises and  sunsets with not even a trace of land marking the horizon. Seals often swam alongside the boat  and playfully greeted us. We would stop at different islands and, just as Daniel and I did on the  small river islands that formed each March, we gave them names. We named one ‘Goat Island’ because we got lost walking along goat trails which would suddenly disappear. Another island,  Dark Harbor, had a small town and a fish shack. It was the first time I had ever ordered and paid  for a meal on my own. It was also the first time I tried a lobster roll and steamers. “Just off the  boat,” the old man said, and he smiled when we paid in quarters. 

The Dauntless was equipped with a small CB radio that crackled occasionally, a reminder  of how far from land we had ventured. “Boys, how about a trip to one of these islands,” Marco said, pointing at the navigational map, “we’ll have to anchor far out and swim to shore.” His  calm tone meant that he had been studying the map for hours, something I enjoyed watching him  do. I was excited to get back to land and swim where I could see a sandy bottom. Though Marco  would often encourage me to join the boys, there was something terrifying about swimming  under the boat in waters so deep—you never knew what could appear. We saw whales,  porpoises. Fish leapt at dusk, and they looked immense. Once, we thought an Orca appeared in  the distance. And the sound and beauty of the periodic spray of a gigantic whale was also a  reminder that large, powerful creatures lurked.  

As we came about, the CB radio crackled and between the static I heard chatter for the  first time. “Carolinas,” I heard, but reception faded. I wondered if we were tapping into the  exchange of boats in those distant waters.  

“Did you hear anything?”, Marco asked from the stern.  

“I heard something about Carolinas, but just that word,” I responded quickly. Marco smiled. He liked clear, concise, immediate responses and the feeling of each crew  member actively engaged with his questions. 

Later in the evening, as we cast our rods to catch the evening meal, Marco reminded us  that the Perseid meteor shower would be peaking. Daniel, who always found new challenges,  announced that we must swim under the boat. But the darkness under the boat’s shadow and the  thought of things nibbling at my toes pulled me out of the dare and I stayed aboard with Marco.  

“Next time you can join them, Isaac,” Marco said with a smile, “and sometimes the radio  is clearer at night.” I moved slowly through the channels and heard it again: “Carolinas.” “Marco, I heard them say Carolinas again, do you think we can hear so far south?”  Marco shook his head. “I don’t think so, Isaac, but keep listening.” 

That night we watched the meteor showers. The night sky was black, without even a trace  of light. I had long forgotten from which direction we came, and I liked not knowing where we  were. I imagined looking down at the boat from the infinite night sky, and the dizzying  realization that our boat might also appear to be a star moving in dark sea.  

When I woke just before sunrise, the nostalgic light of autumn meant the season was  changing. The sun caught the haze coiling from the water and purples and blues ran together.  “Do you feel that chill,” Marco said as he rose from the cabin below, “Fall will come  early this year.” I smiled and kept quiet as Marco looked out at the water. Some days the ocean’s  surface seemed so still, not even a ripple disturbed the sky’s reflection. “We should try the radio  again,” Marco said abruptly as he prepared breakfast. We had reached the farthest point east yet,  not a boat in sight for days, and now far from any of the islands we had explored. The transmitter  was our only real connection to the world beyond The Dauntless. 

I could tell that Marco appreciated my silence. As he read, I began to draw out the islands  I had seen. Drawing maps also made me wonder what lie just a few weeks away: a new town, a  new school, and people I had never met. I wondered if I would still see Daniel and Marco. But I  knew not to stray far from the present moment—there were new things to learn that might make  the change ahead easier.  

“Boys,” Marco said, “I want you to come over here so you can see how deep these waters  are.” He pulled out an old navigational map. Concentric, oblong figures radiated outwards and  small digits marked the changing depths.  

“I want to jump in here,” Daniel said, “Isaac, go get ready.” He flicked my ear just before  jumping off the bow and proceeded to swim underneath the boat, back and forth.  “A seal,” he shouted, “a seal came right up to me and touched my foot!” 

Daniel was fearless. But I had imagined dragons and water snakes in the navigational  map. I saw the mystery of ocean depth and the water whispered caution.  

“I opened my eyes and even saw his whiskers,” Daniel shouted as he came back on deck.  We called this a “Daniel story,” but I went along with it. Daniel was a fountain of story, a master  of taking an experience and watching it magnify with each re-telling—he would narrate wildly,  though without ever losing sight of the core plot, the centrality of the conflict, and the unexpected  resolutions. I looked at Marco and Samuel, sensed their encouragement, and jumped into the  cold depths. They laughed as I gasped for air and swam quickly to the ladder. 

Later that day, I pulled out the transmitter and played with the dial. Static, white noise, a  fleeting voice here and there. I imagined picking up chatter in languages from distant lands. And  then, through the crackles, I heard it again:  

“Bahamas, moving… Carolinas…” A few hours later, after a glorious sail still even  further east, I returned to the transmitter. “Carolinas…” came back through the static, and then  the word that changed our path forever: “Hurricane.”  

It was mid-August 1991, and Marco showed concern for the first time. “Isaac, you keep  listening, we need to head west.” But there were no islands nearby and the sun was beginning its  descent. At night, under the meteor showers, I listened: “Clear path, Carolinas, moving north,”  but the gentle rocking of the boat carried me into sleep.  

Well before sunrise, I found Marco studying the map under a dim lantern.  “This is where we will head, Isaac. You did well listening so closely.” He tapped on the  small island of Dark Harbor. I did not like the sound of Marco’s voice. This was not a man who  showed emotion very often. And what if I had heard incorrectly? 

But then I heard more: “trail of destruction… hurricane path… warning… New  England.” It was impossible to tell what was between those words. As I listened, the warnings  became clearer: “historic hurricane… heading north…” 

Though still quite far from Dark Harbor, Marco began his lessons. “We will have to find  a mooring,” Marco said, “and tie everything as tightly as possible. We will not make it back to  the mainland in time.”  

With our sails full, The Dauntless broke through waves and dipped between rising swells.  For the first time, I could sense the boat’s tension. Nearly two days passed and we had to  maneuver carefully as the waves began to crash with intensity. Too quick a move to avoid an  oncoming wave and we would surely capsize.  

The evening of the storm’s arrival and with darkness setting in, Dark Harbor came into  view. The seas swelled and the heavy tropical air filled our lungs. You could taste the wind’s  journey on your lips. A wave crashed over the stern and The Dauntless groaned. We did not have  much time. Reports of boats snapping from their moorings and crashing onto shore came through  the radio. Evacuation orders were issued.  

Upon arrival, though the transmitter did not recommend it, we found a mooring that  seemed well placed. We took down the sails, quadruple-tied every loose end, and secured the  boat as best we could. We rowed the old dinghy to shore and walked up the steep steps to the  Dark Harbor boathouse which stood high above the water on precarious stilts. We knew that  even one hour difference would have meant a much more difficult arrival and our sea legs told  the tale of dangerous waters. And though we secured the boat, we knew its fate weighed on Marco’s consciousness. 

“Boys, this will be a long night,” Marco said, “I don’t know what we will do if The  Dauntless breaks from the mooring or if another boat snaps from its anchor and runs into her.  She’s all wood.” 

We settled in and listened to the wind as a middle-aged couple shuttered the windows. I  offered to help, and they accepted.  

“Are you planning on sleeping here?”, the woman asked.  

It was hard to tell if we were about to be displaced, reprimanded, or rescued. Marco  cleared his throat and answered for me: “Yes, unfortunately, we had to tie up our sailboat and  there’s nowhere else to go.”  

“Oh dear,” the woman said, “but it’s not safe here at all. Why don’t you all come to our  place—we have plenty of room,” she continued, “really, we insist, this is the biggest storm  we’ve seen, it would be no trouble.” The man remained silent but, sensing my discomfort, patted  me on the shoulder and thanked me again for the help. 

Marco surveyed the room as the wind shook the main cabin. “That would be greatly  appreciated, and we would be glad to help secure the house.” We piled into their old, maroon  Volvo station wagon which smelled of pine needles and the sea.  

Finally, the husband spoke. “I am pleased you accepted,” he began slowly, “the  boathouse could meet its end in tonight’s storm.” There was, in his careful speech, the traces of  another language and I sensed Samuel listening closely.  

After a short ride, we turned onto a hilly driveway and a house appeared from behind the  tree cover. I thought, at first, that the time at sea had warped my perceptive frames, for the  structure did not end. It was the most expansive, old colonial mansion I had ever seen. And it  seemed timeless, suspended on an island far from a place one would expect to find anything of that size. Who lived here, who came here, I thought, who were these people. “We’ve made some  dinner,” the man said, “let’s store a few items before we lose electricity.” 

In silence, my eyes soaked in the hand-cut wooden table, antique candleholders, and  paintings I had seen in books. This home in the middle of the Atlantic held secrets of distant  waterways. Marco, now helping the man, held an ornate vase and his hand trembled slightly. 

“We can’t let the wind take these, now can we Marco,” the man said laughing, and Marco  forced a smile. I do not recall the dinner conversation. I only remember pan-seared scallops,  cooked until golden brown in lemon butter, with a touch of black pepper and sea salt. There was  lobster, too, and I learned how to crack open the claws. It was the most spectacular meal I had  ever eaten.  

After dinner, Daniel and I explored the house cautiously, sticking to nearby rooms so as  not to get lost. In a dark room, I must have kicked a stone of some kind and it slipped through a  door cracked open. We heard the bounce as it hit each step, but the sound did not end. The stone kept going, traveling deeper into unknown space. And then it stopped, seconds passed, and a final crack was heard. We looked at each other as the wind intensified.  

We found a candle and flashlight and descended slowly. From the force of the draft one  could sense the vastness of the house, and the stone, even as we walked deeper, was nowhere in  sight. Unlike the basements I knew in the mountains, the passageway leading down was at least  ten feet wide. And as we moved from the base of the stairs, now thirty feet down from the door,  my candle illuminated thousands of dusty bottles.  

“What is it?”, I whispered to Daniel.  

“It is wine, old wine, it must be hundreds of years old.”

As we continued to walk down the corridor, new rooms emerged. There were old chests,  silver chandeliers, a collection of jewelry, and old yet perfectly maintained compasses and maps.  We reached another staircase made of hardened dirt and stone.  

“Another layer,” Daniel exclaimed, “the basement has multiple floors, it keeps going.”  We cast light on the earthen staircase and pushed the door open slowly. The candle went out  instantly. The rush of wind, which now sounded like a voice, intensified.  “Throw something,” Daniel said, “so we can hear how deep it goes.”  

I put my hand on the cold steps and found a piece of old brick. We heard the brick  bounce several times, stop, and then, after several seconds, a distant splash. “There is water  down there,” Daniel said, “but it is so far away!” I remembered the goat trails, the feeling of  getting lost on an island in uncharted waters. I thought I heard Marco calling and, though I  wanted to head back, I realized this was my moment to finally take the lead.  

“Daniel,” I said without thinking, “tell them we are exploring so they don’t worry.” He  looked at me quizzically and headed upstairs. 

I felt along the wall and a piece of brick fell inwards, revealing a shelf with brilliant blue,  purple, amber, and turquoise stones. Emboldened by my time at sea, I reached into the dark  space and ran my fingers over the stones. I longed to see them in full light and put one in my  pocket. New passageways emerged. There were thresholds that led to lower levels, elaborate  tables, fine silverware, gold figurines, and precious gemstones. A door slammed. The wind from  underneath seemed to stir. Was this the hurricane, I wondered, do hurricanes come from below?  The bottles of wine cast odd, leering shadows. Were those voices, I thought, or winds? It was  impossible to know. I saw gold coins which lined shelves and hundreds of ancient vases. I am  not supposed to be here, I thought, and hurried upstairs.

When I reached the door, I saw shapes carrying candles and waited. Quickly, I opened  the door and walked down the hallway. 

“Come,” the man said when he saw me, “we were looking for you—I will show you to  your room.”  

We walked through twisting staircases. The home resembled a labyrinth and with such  abrupt turns, I lost my sense of direction. The room resembled a lighthouse with windows on all  sides. Looming pines swayed dangerously in the gusts and the windows shook against their  frames. “This house has weathered many storms,” the man said, “but this may be the most  forceful.” I wondered about my family who knew nothing of our whereabouts. Did they think we  might still be at sea? There was no way to make contact. 

In the depths of the night, I heard the groan. The entire house was shaking and swaying, a  window broke, and rain poured into the room. Were we at sea, I thought, would the house fly  away? The air, though frightening, felt warm and thick. Its heaviness was nothing like the crisp  mornings on the water.  

Through the broken window, Hurricane Bob shouted and howled into the night. The old  beams creaked away, pushed to their breaking point. I imagined the old Dauntless bouncing in  the waves, bending, tipping into the water. What was it like on the water, I imagined. If this  immense house could fly away without the waves, what would be the boat’s fate in surging tide?  Could the water reach us? Daniel and I stared off into the night and watched old trees lift from  the ground, crashing with ferocity.  

When I opened my eyes, I was surprised to see faint traces of sunlight. Marco called from  below, “Boys, we must go, come quickly.” I looked at the bright blue stone that I had placed next  to my bed and knew what I must do. Silently, I wandered through long corridors and found my way to the basement. I moved with confidence through the passageways, pressed into the brick gently, and paused to take in the sight of even more layers of shelving stacked with gold and  silver. I looked at my stone with admiration, placed it carefully with the other stones, and hurried  back to Marco’s call.  

We moved in silence knowing that, though we survived, The Dauntless may have not. When we arrived, dozens of boats were smashed apart, split in two, and stacked upon each other.  Yet beyond the rubble, rocking gently, was The Dauntless. Untouched, she was the only boat  that remained tied to a mooring. “Another Dauntless miracle!”, Marco shouted to the sky. 

As we bid farewells, I looked back to where I thought the magnificent house might be.  Yet there was no sign of a hill, no rising treetops where the pines gathered, no way to know  where we had come from. The couple helped push us off in the dingy—the waves were choppy  and the wind, now colder, was still strong. Just before letting go, the man reached into his pocket  and offered his closed fist. “Isaac,” he whispered so that nobody would hear, “before I forget, I  want you to have this. It’s our secret.” He dropped the stone into my hands and the familiar  edges pressed into my fingers. A wry smile appeared in his knowing look. I thanked him, and, as  we looked back, I traced the coastline for where that underground network of tunnels might  reach. He knew what I had seen. 

We sailed for hours on choppy seas and saw massive, ironclad mailboats obliterated on  the islands. Some looked as if they had been dropped from the sky. “We were lucky, boys,”  Marco said, “we are the only ones out here.” We let the sails catch the wind and The Dauntless  seemed to gallop over the white crests of wave and crash through the openings between swells. It  felt as though the boat were sailing on her own, soaring above the water. 

As Camden appeared, Marco slowed The Dauntless and asked us to come close. “We  worked together as a crew,” he said, “and that is how we survived the storm.” I saw a tear in his  eye. The waves crashed into the boat, but we had weathered swells much more powerful. “We  also uncovered a story,” Marco continued, “those vases I moved were ancient Greek amphora.” 

August 1991 was a few weeks before I moved to another town and changed schools. I did  not know that would be our last trip together. And, though I never traveled with Marco again, I  still carry his lessons from the Maine waters: start your day in silence, each twist of the rope can  bring a new knot, explore, and study the maps of waterways as you draw new ones. I carried the  stone with me to my new school so that it would remind me of the storm and how to keep  exploring, even in the unknown, dauntless. It is the one thing I always keep close.  

Though Daniel and I lost touch over the years we still know the names of the islands  from our maps of childhood. We still know the metaphor of following a goat path. Mention a  luminescent night swim, our bodies shedding a thousand stars of green light in the black ocean,  and Daniel and I can still pinpoint the feeling. And the ancient Greek vases of the Dark Harbor  home, as I turn the stone in my hand some three decades later, will forever make us wonder, who  were those people and how might we find them again.  

S.I. Rocco sailed through several hurricanes while  musing and writing The Dauntless. The debut author’s travels in Brazil, Cuba, and The Bahamas  find their way into this coming-of-age tale which marks the first of a series of stories about wind, water, and the discovery of possibility where fear once loomed. The short story was inspired by The Man Who Planted Trees by Jean Giono (1953).