Cold salt water laps the beach, baptizing the goose tongue and goldenrod with spray. It stings my hands in places that have met with sharp rock and lobster claws: a good clean sting like ointment. The motorboat I moor onshore sputters to life. I am soaked with sea and fog before I have even reached the Pemaquid, tied further out so as not to run its keel aground. The lobster traps clank as I push past them to the engine. I wince at the high-pitched squeal, a testament to its manufacture date. The orange rubber overalls transform me into a beacon in the hour just before dawn.
Then I see the blue light.
The engine stalls. My eyes dart between the arms of the temperature gauge and the RPM, spinning independently of anything the small fishing boat does or, indeed, has ever been capable of doing. I've seen the blue light a handful of times, but not this close. Never this close. It pulses softly across the surface of the water, as if bioluminescent plankton are on holiday off the coast of Bristol. A tinge of lighter, greyer blue floats in the fog. The fine hairs creep along my neck and scalp as my fingers fumble with the radio. "Matt," I hiss into the tube. "Matt, it's the light. It's back– the blue light–"
But my voice is greeted only by static. The Pemaquid's antenna bobs as sudden waves beat against her sides like airplane turbulence. A ship has entered, hidden somewhere in the harbor.
I scour my mind to recall whether there have been any scheduled arrivals, any clearances for a ship big enough to tilt the deck so that I stumble forward, lobster traps crashing around my head. Swearing, I support myself against the bulkhead, more angry now than spooked. What chowderhead from Town Hall decided to keep its fishermen in the dark like this?